















'I 















RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES; 


CHIEFLY FROM THE 


H L. 

LECTURES OF DR. BLAIR. 


BY ABRAHAM MILLS, A. M. 

/ 

AUTHOR OF AN IMPROVED EDITION OF ALISON ON TASTE, ETC. 


A ftEW EDITION, ENLARGED AND IMPROVED. 

■5) 

1 * 


NEW YORK: 


ROE LOCKWOOD & SON, 

AMERICAN AND FOREIGN BOOKSELLERS, 
411 BROADWAY. 

1857. 










Entered according to act of Congress, by James Conner, in the Clerk’s 
Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, 

By EOE LOCKWOOD & SON, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. 






PREFACE' TO THE ENLARGED EDITION. 


In presenting to the public an improved edition of the fol¬ 
lowing lectures, the author has endeavored to render the work 
as nearly complete as the nature of the subject would permit. 
With this view he has extended the critical portion down to 
the present period—embracing all those writers in English 
literature who have adorned the language with their produc¬ 
tions during the last half century. The criticisms, though 
brief, are as extensive as the nature of the work requires, and 
are written with direct reference to the purposes of instruction. 
The departments of writing which required the greatest atten¬ 
tion, are those of Fiction and Poetry, as in these, especially in 
the former, greater advances have been made than in any other 
department of intellectual labor. The fictions of Sir Walter 
Scott are emphatically the literary glory of the past age—im¬ 
pressing the mind with the purest and most elevated moral 
lessons, in a form so attractive, that minds the most humble as 
well as those the most elevated, may read them with equal 
profit. Those of James are not less pure in their moral tone, 
but they want the enchantment whieh the great “ Wizard of 
the North” contrived to throw round all his immortal works ; 
whilst those of Dickens soften the hearts of all readers by the 
pathetic lessons of poverty and virtue combined, in scenes and 
under circumstances where we have hitherto been accustomed 
to look for nothing but vice and its corresponding degradation. 



IV 


PREFACE TO THE ENLARGED EDITION. 


We have noticed the same purity and devotion of sentiment in 
the poems of Montgomery, Campbell, and some other writers, 
and have endeavored to impress upon the minds of youth such 
a view of the works of Byron, and of those of other authors that 
belonged to liis school, as the occasion seemed to require. 

With these remarks we offer the work anew to the public, 
hoping for it a continuance of the liberal patronage which it 
has hitherto enjoyed. 

April, 1853. 






Dr, Blair’s Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres are 
in the hands of every one pretending to taste and polite learn 
ii.g; and to argue in favor of their merits, would he like 
attempting to persuade the lovers of poetry, that they ough 
to admire the Deserted Village of Goldsmith, or the Plea 
sures of Hope of Campbell. 

The author of the present volume has, therefore, adhered 
to the original text as closely as possible; and in every 
case, where the design of the work rendered it necessary 
to deviate from it, he has uniformly endeavored to identify 
the alterations and additions with Dr. Blair’s own style and 
manner of writing, that no discrepancy might be perceived. 
It was not the author’s ambition to attempt anything original; 
but to offer to Professors and Teachers of this delightful 
science, a text book, which, from its convenience and appro¬ 
priateness, might meet their approbation. 

Though the practice of using questions in books of in¬ 
struction, is still objected to by some well informed persons 
connected with the business of education, yet it is appre¬ 
hended that this objection rests rather on the very defective 
manner in which questions are generally prepared, than on 
the questions themselves: for, surely, as the object of com¬ 
mitting the text without them, is, that the whole body of the? 
work may be learned, so, if the questions be properly con, 
structed, they must necessarily include the literal whole of 
the author. That the student, therefore, may enjoy every 
possible facility while studying this work, the author has 
endeavored to draw his questions from the work itself; 
involving in them, and the answers which they require, all 
that the text contains. Some, however, may still object to 
1 * 





VI ^ PREFACE, 

questions, however carefully they may be formedw^To such 
the author would only observe, that as„ these are appeTWed 
to the work, and not incorporated in it, they may, without 
any inconvenience to the teacher, be omitted altogether. 

With regard to the analyses affixed to the lectures, it must 
be remembered that they are intended to be used in the form 
of review—that after the student shall have learned the text 
of a lecture thoroughly, he should then be directed to commit 
the analysis perfectly to memory, and, by it, recapitulate the 
subject as one whole. 

It was remarked to the author, when he commenced this 
work, that a different arrangement of the lectures would be 
a judicious improvement. But, upon reflection, he thought 
it most advisable to follow the order of the original. Should 
others, however, think differently, they may pursue the 
course that first suggested itself—to commence the work 
with the lecture on the Rise and Progress of Language, and 
introduce the II., III., IV., and V. lectures immediately 
after the Criticisms on Mr. Addison’s Style, in the Spectator. 

Nex York , November , 1832. 


LECTURE I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

One of the most distinguished privileges that Providence 
has conferred upon mankind, is the power of communicating 
their thoughts to one another Without this power, reason 
would be a solitary, and, m some measure, an unavailable 
principle. Speech is the great instrument by which man 
becomes beneficial to man; and it is to the intercourse and 
transmission of thought, by means of speech, that we are 
chiefly indebted for the improvement of thought itself. Small 
are the advances which a single unassisted individual can 
make towards perfecting any of his powers. What we call 
human reason, is not the effort or ability of one, so much 
as it is the result of the reason of many, arising from lights 
mutually communicated, in consequence of discourse and 
writing. 

It is obvious then, that writing and discourse are objects 
entitled to the highest attention. Whether the influence of 
the speaker, or the entertainment of the hearer, be consulted 
—whether utility or pleasure be the principal aim in view; 
we are prompted by the strongest motives, to study how we 
may communicate our thoughts to the best advantage. In 
the language, even of the rudest and most uncultivated tribes 
of men, we can trace some attention to the grace and force of 
those expressions which they used, when they sought to 
persuade or to effect; and among nations in a civilized state, 
no art has been cultivated with more care, than that of lan¬ 
guage, style, and composition. The attention paid to it, 
may, indeed, be assumed as one mark of the progress 
of society towards its most improved period ; for, accord¬ 
ing as society improves and flourishes, men, by means of 
reasoning and discourse, acquire more influence over ont? 
another. 


What is one of the most distinguished privileges that Providence has 
conferred upon mankind % Without this power, what would reason be 1 
Of speech, what is remarked ; and what follows 'l What is what we call 
human reason ; and from what does it arise 'l Of writing and discourse 
then, what is obvious; and why 'l In the language of the rudest and 
most uncultivated tribes of men, what can we trace ; and of nations in a 
civilized state, what is observed 1 As what, may the attention paid to it, be 
assumed ; and why 1 



s INTRODUCTION. [Lect 1. 

The study of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, not only sup¬ 
poses, hut requires a proper acquaintance with the rest of the 
liberal arts. As it embraces them all within its circle, and 
recommends them to the highest regard, the first care of such 
as wish, either to write with reputation, or to speak in public, 
so as to command attention, must he to extend their know¬ 
ledge—to lay in a rich store of ideas relating to those subjects, 
on which the occasions of life may call them to discourse or 
to write. Hence, among the ancients, it was a fundamental 
principle, and frequently inculcated, that the orator ought to 
be an accomplished scholar, and conversant in every part ol 
learning. It is, indeed, impossible to contrive an art, and 
very pernicious it were, if it could he contrived, which should 
give the stamp of merit to any composition, rich or splendid 
in expression, but barren or erroneous in thought. They 
are the wretched attempts towards an art of this kind, which 
have so often disgraced oratory, and debased it below its true 
value The graces of composition have been employed to 
disguise or to supply the want of matter ; and the temporary 
applause of the ignorant has been courted, instead of the 
lasting approbation of the discerning. But such imposture 
can never maintain its ground long : knowledge and science 
must furnish the materials that form the body and substance 
of any valuable composition. Rhetoric serves to add the 
polish; and we know that none but firm and solid bodies 
can be polished well. 

To speak or to write with perspicuity and purity, with 
grace and strength, are attainments of the utmost consequence 
to all who purpose, either by speech or writing, to address 
the public; for, without being master of these attainments, 
no man c^n do justice to his own conceptions. And so far 
are they from being of that kind, for which we are indebted 
to nature alone, that among the learned, it has long been a 
contested, and, indeed, still remains an undecided question. 

With what does the study of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres require a 
proper acquaintance '? As it embraces them all within its circle, and re¬ 
commends them to the highest regard, what should be the first care of 
such as wish, either to write with reputation, or to speak in public, so as 
to command attention'] Hence, what was, among the ancients, a funda¬ 
mental principle, and frequently inculcated 'l An art of what sort, if it 
were possible to contrive such an one, would be very pernicious 'l Of the 
wretched attempts towards an art of this kind, what is observed; for what 
have the graces of composition been employed; and what follows 'l But 
why cannot such imposture maintain its ground long ? What are attain¬ 
ments of the utmost consequence; to whom, and why 1 What, among the 
learned, has long been a contested, and still remains an undecided question 'l 



Lect. 1.] INTRODUCTION. 9 

whether nature or art contributes most towards excellence 
m them. 

With respect to the manner in which art can most effec¬ 
tually furnish assistance for such a purpose, there may be 
diversity of opinions; and it would be presumption to say, 
that mere rhetorical rules, how just soever are sufficient to 
form an orator. Private application and study, supposing 
natural genius to be favorable, are certainly superior to 
any system of public instruction. But though rules and in¬ 
structions cannot comprehend every thing which is requisite, 
they mav afford considerable advantage. They cannot, it is 
true ‘nspire genius ;* but they can direct and assist it. They 
car.not render barrenness fruitful; but they may correct 
redundancy. They point out the proper models for imita¬ 
tion ; they bring into view the chief beauties that ought to 
be studied, and the principal faults thm ought to be avoided ; 
and thereby tend to enlighten taste, am to lead genius from 
unnatural deviations into its proper channel. Though they 
are incapable, perhaps, of producing great excellencies, they 
may, at least, be subservient to prevent the commission of 
considerable mistakes. 

All that regards the study of eloquence and composition, 
merits the higher attention, upon this account, that it is inti 
mately connected witn the improvement of our intellectual 
powers. For it must be allowed, that when we are employ¬ 
ed, after a proper manner, in the study of composition, we 
are cultivating reason itself. True rhetoric, and sound logic, 
are very nearly allied. The study of arranging and express 
ing our thoughts with propriety, teaches us to think as well 
as to speak accurately; for by putting our sentiments into 
words, we always conceive them more distinctly. Every 
one who has the slightest acquaintance with composition, 
knows that the defects of his style, can almost always be 
traced back to an indistinct conception of his subject. 

As rhetoric has been sometimes thought to signify nothing 

About what, may there be diversity of opinions ; and to say what, would 
be presumption 'l What are superior to any system of public instruction'? 
What cannot rules and instructions effect; yet what can they do 1 
Though they are incapable of producing great excellencies, yet what may 
they prevept 1 Why does all that regards the study of eloquence and com¬ 
position, merit attention 'l What must be allowed to be its effect 'l What are 
very nearly allied 'l What effect does the study of arranging and express¬ 
ing our thoughts properly produce ; and why ) What does every one, who 
has the slightest acquaintance with composition, know 1 What has rhetoric, 
sometimes, been thought to signify; and how has criticism been considered 1 



10 


INTRODUCTION. [Lect. 1 

more than the scholastic study of words, and phrases, and 
tropes ; so criticism has been considered as merely the art 
of finding faults—as the frigid application of certain technical 
terms, by means of which, persons are taught to cavil and 
censure in a learned manner. But this is the criticism of 
pedants only. True criticism is a liberal and humane art. 
It is the offspring of good sense and refined taste. It aims 
at acquiring a just discernment of the real merits of authors. 
It promotes a lively relish of their beauties, while it preserves 
us from that blind and implicit veneration which would con 
found their beauties and faults in our esteem. 

In an age when works of genius are so frequently the 
subjects of discourse, when every one erects himself into a 
judge, and when we can hardly mingle in polite society 
without bearing some share in such discussions ; studies of 
this kind, it is not to be doubted, will appear to derive part of 
their importance from the use to which they may be applied 
in furnishing materials for those fashionable topics of dis¬ 
course, and thereby enabling us to support a proper rank in 
social life. But it would be much to be regretted, if we could 
not rest the merit of such studies on somewhat of solid and 
intrinsical use, independent of appearance and show. The 
exercise of taste and of sound criticism is, in truth, one of the 
most improving employments of the understanding. To ap¬ 
ply the principles of good sense to composition and discourse ; 
to examine what is beautiful, and why it is so; to employ 
ourselves in distinguishing accurately between the specious 
and the solid, between affected and natural ornament, must 
certainly improve us not a little in the most valuable part of 
all philosophy—the philosophy of human nature. For such 
disquisitions are very intimately connected with the know¬ 
ledge of ourselves. They reasonably lead us to reflect on 
the operations of the imagination, and the movements of the 
heart; and increase our acquaintance with some of the most 
refined feelings which belong to our frame. 


Of whom is this the criticism 1 What is true criticism; and at what 
does it aim 'l What does it promote ; and from what preserve us 1 In an 
age like the present, from what will studies of this kind appear to derive 
part of their importance; but what would be, at the same time, much to 
be regretted'? Of the exercise of taste, and of sound criticism, what is 
observed; and what must certainly improve us in the philosophy of huma n 
nature I With what are such disquisitions very intimately connected; to 
reflect on what, do they necessarily lead us; and with what do they 
increase our acquaintance 1 



Lect. 1.] INTRODUCTION 'll 

To Belles Lettres belongs, also, all that relates to beauty, 
harmony, grandeur, and elegance ; all that can soothe the 
mind, gratify the fancy, or move the affections. They also 
exercise the mind without fatiguing it; leading to inquiries 
acute but not painful; profound, but not dry nor abstruse. 
The pleasures of taste occupy a middle station between the 
pleasures of sense and those of pure intellect. To be entirely 
devoid of relish for eloquence, poetry, or any of the fine arts, 
is justly considered an unpromising symptom in youth; and 
raises suspicions of their being prone to low gratifications, or 
destined to drudge in the more vulgar and illiberal pursuits 
of life. A cultivated taste increases sensibility to all the ten 
der and humane passions, by giving them frequent exercise, 
while it tends to weaken the more violent and fierce emotions. 

These polished arts have humanized mankind, 

Soften’d the rude, and calm’d the boist’rous mind. 

The elevated sentiments and high examples which poetry, 
eloquence, and history, are often bringing under our view, 
naturally tend to nourish, in our minds, public spirit, the 
love of glory, contempt of external fortune, and the admira¬ 
tion, of what is truly illustrious and great. From reading 
the most admired productions of genius, whether in poetry 
or prose, almost every one rises with some good impressions 
left upon his mind; and though these may not always be 
durable, they are, at least, to be ranked among the means of 
disposing the heart to virtue. One thing is certain, that 
without possessing the virtuous affections in a strong degree, 
no man can attain to eminence in the sublime parts of 
eloquence. He must feel what a good man feels, if he 
expects greatly to move, or to interest mankind. The ardent 
sentiments of honor, virtue, magnanimity, and public spirit 
only, can kindle that fire of genius, and call up into the 
mind those high ideas, which attract the admiration of ages ; 
and if this spirit be necessary to produce the most dis¬ 
tinguished efforts of eloquence, it must be necessary also to 
the relishing of them with proper taste and feeling. 

To Belles Lettres, also, belongs what 'l They also exercise the mind with¬ 
out what; and lead to inquiries of what kind % What station do the pleasures 
of taste occupy 1 What is justly considered an unpromising symptom in 
youth; and of what does it raise suspicions 'l What is the effect of a cul¬ 
tivated taste % Repeat the poetic illustration. What do the elevated senti¬ 
ments and high examples which poetry, eloquence, and history, g,re often 
bringing under our view, naturally tend to nourish in our minds i How is this 
remark illustrated 1 What is certain ; and why 'i What, only, can kindle that 
fire of genius, which attracts the admiration of ages; and what remark follows 'l 



LECTURE II. 


TASTE. 

There are few subjects on which men talk more loosely 
and indistinctly than on taste ; few which it is more difficult 
to explain with precision ; and none which in these lectures 
will appear more dry and abstract. In our remarks on the 
subject, we shall pursue the following order :— First, explain 
the nature of taste as a power or faculty of the human mind : 
next, consider how far it is an improvable faculty: then 
show the sources of its improvement, and its characters in 
its most perfect state: and in the last place, examine the 
various fluctuations to which it is liable, and inquire whether 
there be any standard to which the different tastes of men 
can be brought, in order to distinguish the false from the true. 

Taste may be defined, “ The power of receiving pleasure 
from the beauties of nature and of art.” The first question 
that occurs concerning it is, whether it is an internal stmse, 
or an exertion of reason 1 Reason is a very general A jwn ; 
but if we understand by it that power of the mind wjSHfi in 
speculative matters discovers truth, and in practical^natters 
judges of the fitness of means to an end, it is evident that 
taste cannot be resolved into any such operation. It is not 
merely through a discovery of the understandirig or a deduc¬ 
tion of argument, that the mind receives pleasure from a 
beautiful prospect or a fine poem. Such objects often strike 
us intuitively, and make a strong impression, when we are 
unable to assign the reason of our being pleased. They 
sometimes strike, in the same manner, the philosopher and 
the peasant; the boy and the man. Hence the faculty by 
which we relish such beauties, seems more nearly allied to a 
feeling of sense, than to a process of the understanding ; and, 
accordingly, from an external sense it has borrowed its name. 
But, though taste be ultimately founded on a certain natural 

Of the subject of this lecture, what is observed 'l In our remarks upon 
it, what order shall we pursue ? How may taste be defined ; and what is 
the first question that occurs concerning it 1 Of reason what is remarked ? 
How does it appear evident that taste cannot be resolved into any operation 
of reason; and why 1 What farther illustration of this remark follows 1 
Hence, of the faculty by which we relish such beauties, what is observed'? 
But, though taste be ultimately founded on a certain natural instinctive 
sensibility to beauty, yet what follows ? 






Lect. 2.] TASTE. 13 

instinctive sensibility to beauty, yet reason assists it in many 
of its operations, and serves to enlarge its power. 

Taste is a faculty common, in some degree, to all man 
kmd. Nothing that belongs to human nature is more general 
than ,the relish of beauty of one kind or other ; of what is or¬ 
derly, proportioned, grand, harmonious, new, or sprightly 
In children, the rudiments of taste discover themselves very 
early, in a thousand instances ; in their fondness for regular 
bodies, their admiration of pictures and statues, and their 
strong attachment to whatever is new or marvellous. . The 
most ignorant peasants are delighted with ballads and tales, 
and are struck with the beautiful appearance of nature in the 
earth and heavens. Even in the deserts of America, where 
human nature appears in its most uncultivated state, the 
savages have their ornaments of dress, their war and their 
death songs, their harangues and their orators. The prin¬ 
ciples of taste must, therefore, be deeply founded in the 
human mind. To hav dome discernment of beauty, is no 
less essential to man, than to possess the attributes of speech 
and reason. 

But although none be wholly devoid of this faculty, yet 
the degrees in which it is possessed, are widely different. 
In some men, only the feeble glimmerings of taste appear ; 
the beauties which they relish are of the coarsest kind ; and 
of these they have but a weak and confused impression: 
while in others, taste rises to an acute discernment, and a 
lively enjoyment of the most refined beauties. In general, 
it may be observed, that in the powers and pleasures of taste, 
there is a more remarkable inequality among men, than is 
usually found in point of common sense, reason, and judg¬ 
ment. This inequality is, doubtless, to be ascribed, in part, 
to the different frames of their natures ; to nicer organs, and 
finer internal powers, with which some are endowed beyond 
others : yet it is owing, still more, to culture and education. 

Taste is certainly one of the most improvable faculties 
which adorns our nature. Of the truth of this remark, we 


From what does it appear that taste is a faculty, common, in some degree, 
to all men ; and how is this remark fully illustrated ? Of the principles ot 
taste, therefore, what is observed, and why ? Though none be entirely 
devoid of this faculty, yet from what does it appear that the degrees in 
which it is possessed are widely different ? What may, in general, be 
observed ; and to what is this inequality to be ascribed ? How may we 
be convinced of the truth of the remark, that taste is one of our most 
improvable faculties? 



14 TASTE. [Lect. 2. 

may easily be convinced, by only reflecting on the immense 
superiority which education and improvement give to civi¬ 
lized above barbarous nations, in refinement of taste ; and on 
the superiority which they give in the same nation to those 
who have studied the liberal arts, above the rude and un¬ 
taught vulgar. The difference is so great, that there is, 
perhaps, no one particular in which these two classes of men 
are so far removed from each other, as in respect of the 
powers and the pleasures of tasteand assuredly for this 
difference, no other general cause can be assigned, but cul¬ 
ture and education. 

Exercise is the chief source of improvement in all our 
faculties, either bodily or mental; and even in our external 
senses, though these are less the subject of cultivation than 
any of our other powers. We see how acute the senses 
become in persons whose trade or profession leads to nice 
exertions of them. Of this we have a clear proof in that 
part of taste, which is called an ear for music. Only the 
simplest and plainest compositions are relished at first; prac 
tice extends our pleasure ; teaches us to relish finer melody, 
and by degrees enables us to enter into the intricate and com¬ 
pounded pleasures of harmony. So an eye for the beauties 
of painting, is never at once acquired. It is gradually 
formed by being conversant among pictures, and studying 
the works of the best masters. In the same manner, with 
respect to the beauties of composition and discourse, atten¬ 
tion to the most approved models, study of the best authors, 
comparisons of lower and higher degrees of the same beau¬ 
ties, operate towards the refinement of taste. At first, the 
sentiment is obscure and confused ; but, by experience, the 
taste, at length, becomes more enlightened and exact. We 
not only perceive the character of the whole, but the beauties 
and defects of each part; and are able to describe the peculiat 
qualities which we praise or blame. 

But although taste be ultimately founded on sensibility, it. 
must not be considered as instinctive sensibility alone. Rea- 


Of the greatness of the difference between these classes, what is ob 
served ; and for this difference, what cause, only, can be assigned 7 Of 
the effect of exercise, upon both our bodily and mental faculties, what is 
remarked; and even in our external senses also 1 How is this remark 
illustrated, in what is called an ear for music; an eye for the beauties of 
painting; and, also, the beauties of composition and discourse 1 Though 
taste be ultimately founded on sensibility, yet why may it not be considered 
instinctive sensibility alone 'l 



Lect. 2.] TASTE. 15 

son and good sense have so extensive an influence on all the 
operations and decisions of taste, that a thoroughly good taste 
may well be considered as a power compounded of natural 
sensibility to beauty, and of improved understanding, To 
be convinced of the truth of this position, we may observe, 
that the greater part of the productions of genius, are no 
other than the imitations of nature—representations of the 
characters, actions, and manners of men. The pleasure 
which we receive from such imitations, as representations, 
is founded on mere taste: but to judge whether they be 
properly executed, belongs to the understanding, which 
compares the copy with the original. In reading, for 
instance, such a poem as the iEniad, a great part of our 
pleasure arises from the plan or story being well conducted, 
and all the parts being joined together with probability and 
due connection—from the characters being taken from nature, 
the sentiments being suited to the characters, and the style to 
the sentiments. The pleasure which is derived from a poem 
so conducted, is felt or enjoyed by taste as an internal sense ; 
but the discovery of this conduct in the poem is owing to 
reason ; and the more that reason enables us to discover such 
propriety in the conduct, the greater will be our pleasure. 

From these two sources then, first, the frequent exercise of 
taste, and next, the application of reason to the objects of taste, 
taste as a power of the mind receives its improvement. But 
we must not forget to add, that as a sound head, so likewise 
a g^od heart is a very material requisite to just taste. The 
moral beauties are not only themselves superior to all others, 
but they exert an influence, either more near or more remote, 
on a great variety of other objects of taste. He who has no 
admiration of what is truly praiseworthy, nor the proper 
sympathetic sense of what is soft and tender, must have a 
very imperfect relish of the highest beauties of eloquence 
and poetry. 

The characters of taste, when brought to its most improved 
state, are all reducible to two ; Delicacy and Correctness. 

To be convinced of the truth of this proposition, what may we observe 7 
On what is the pleasure which we receive from such imitations founded; 
but how do we judge whether they be properly executed'? How is this 
remark illustrated, from the reading of such a poem as the TEniad 7 From 
what two sources, then, does taste receive its improvement'? But what 
remark must we not forget to add; and of moral beauties, what is ob¬ 
served 7 Who must have a very imperfect relish of the highest beauties of 
eloquence and poetry. What are the characters of taste, when brought 
to its most perfect state 7 



16 TASTE. [Lect.2. 

Delicacy ol taste respects, principally, the perfection of 
that natural sensibility on which taste is founded. It implies 
those finer organs or powers which enable us to discover 
beauties that lie hid from the vulgar eye. It is judged of 
by the same marks, by which we judge of the delicacy of an 
external sense. As the goodness of the palate is not tried by 
strong flavors, hut by a mixture of ingredients, where, not¬ 
withstanding the confusion, we remain sensible of each ; in 
like manner, delicacy of internal sense appears, by a quick 
and lively sensibility to its finest, most compounded, or most 
latent objects. 

Correctness of taste, respects chiefly, the improvement 
which that faculty receives through its connection with the 
understanding. A man of correct taste is one who is never 
imposed on by counterfeit beauties ; who carries always in 
his mind that standard of good sense which he employs in 
judging of every thing. He estimates with propriety the 
comparative merit of the several beauties which he meets 
with in any work of genius; refers them to their proper 
classes ; assigns the principles, as far as they can be traced, 
whence their power of pleasing flows ; and is pleased himself 
precisely in that degree in which he ought to be pleased, and 
no more. Delicacy and correctness of taste, it is true, 
mutually imply each other. No taste can be exquisitely 
delicate without being correct; nor can it be thoroughly cor¬ 
rect without being delicate : but still a predominancy of one 
or other quality in the mixture is often visible. The power 
of delicacy is chiefly seen in discerning the true merit of a 
work ; the power c f correctness, in rejecting false pretensions 
to merit.. Delicacy leans more to feeling ; correctness more 
to reason and judgment: the former is more the gift of 
nature ; the latter, more the product of culture and art. 

The variations of taste have been so great and frequent, 
as to create a suspicion with some, whether, in relation to it 
there be any standard, by which a true taste may be dis¬ 
tinguished from one that is corrupt. In architecture, in 

What does delicacy of taste principally respect; and what doe? it imply ?■ 
By what marks is it judged of; and how is this illustrated'l What does 
correctness of taste chiefly respect'? Of a man of correct taste, what is 
remarked 'l How does it appear that delicacy and correctness of taste 
mutually imply each other; but still, what is often visible ! In what is .he 
power of delicacy chiefly seen; and in what the power of correctness 1 
To what do they respectively lean; and whence are they derived 1 Of 
what have the variations of taste created a suspicion'? How is this illus¬ 
trated, from architecture, poetry, and eloquence 'l 




Lect, 2.] TASTE. 17 

poetry, and in eloquence, not only one nation, but also one 
age, has differed from another. But let it he observed, that, 
if there be no such thing as a standard of taste, all tastes 
are equally good; the taste of a Hottentot or a Laplander, is 
as delicate and as correct, as that of a Longinus, or an Addi¬ 
son. There must then be a good and a bad, a right and a 
wrong, in taste, as well as in other things. It is not, how¬ 
ever, in matters of taste, as in questions of mere reason, 
where there is but one conclusion that can be true, and all 
the rest erroneous. Truth, which is the object of reason, is 
one ; beauty, which is the object of taste, is manifold. Taste, 
therefore, admits of diversity of objects; but this can take 
place only where the objects themselves are different. Where 
one man condemns that as deformed, which another pro¬ 
nounces to be highly beautiful, there is no longer a diversity, 
but a direct opposition of taste; the one must be right, the 
other wrong. 

The standard of taste to which the ultimate appeal must 
ever lie, is the sense of mankind—the taste of men in polished 
and flourishing nations, where arts are cultivated and man¬ 
ners refined ; where works of genius are subjected to free 
discussions, and taste is improved by science and philosophy. 
Even among such nations, however, the proper operations of 
taste may be warped by the state of religion, or the form of 
government; by a licentious court, or an admired genius; 
by envy, popular humor, or party spirit. But in the course of 
time, the genuine taste of human nature will again disclose it¬ 
self, and gain the ascendancy over any fantastic and corrupted 
modes, which casual circumstances may have introduced. 

That taste is not an arbitrary principle, and subject to the 
fancy of every individual, is evident. Its foundation is 
the same in every human mind. It is built upon senti¬ 
ments and perceptions which belong to our nature; and 
which, in general, operate in the same uniformity as our 


But, if there be no standard of taste, what consequence will follow; and 
what must, therefore, exist 'l Whether the same thing holds in matters of 
taste, that holds in questions of mere reasoning, what is observed; and of 
truth and beauty what is remarked 1 Though taste admits of diversity o. 
objects, yet where, only, can this diversity take place; and how is this 
illustrated 'l What is the standard of taste, to which the ultimate appeal 
must ever lie'? Among such nations, however, by what may the proper 
operations of taste be warped ; but, in the course of time, what will take 
place 'l What evidence have we that taste is not an arbitrary principle; 
and on what is it built 1 


2* 




18 


TASTE 


[Lect. 2. 


other intellectual principles. When these sentiments are 
perverted by ignorance and prejudice, they are capable of 
being rectified by reason. Their sound and natural state is 
ultimately determined, by comparing them with the general 
taste of mankind. Let men declaim as much as they please, 
concerning the caprice and the uncertainty of taste, it is 
found, by experience, that there are beauties which, if they 
be displayed in a proper light, have power to command last¬ 
ing and general admiration. In every composition, what 
interests the imagination and touches the heart, pleases all 
ages and all nations. There is a certain string, to which, when 
properly struck, the human heart immediately vibrates. 

Hence the universal testimony which the most improved 
nations of the earth have united, throughout a long series of 
ages, to bestow on some few works of genius ; such as the 
Iliad of Homer, and the iEniad of Virgil. Hence the 
authority which such works have acquired, as standards, in 
some degree, of poetical composition; since, from them, we 
are able to collect what the sense of mankind is concerning 
those beauties which give them the highest pleasure, and 
which, therefore, poetry ought to exhibit. Authority or pre¬ 
judice may, in one age or country, give a short-lived repu¬ 
tation to an insipid poet, or a bad artist; but when foreigners, 
or when posterity examine his works, his faults are dis¬ 
cerned, and the genuine taste of human nature appears. 
Time overthrows the illusions of opinion, but establishes the 
decisions of nature. 


When these sentiments are perverted by ignorance and prejudice, how 
may they be restored; and how is their sound and natural state ultimately 
determined'? Though men may declaim concerning the caprice of taste, 
yet what is found by experience to be true ? Of every composition what is 
observed ; and why is this the case 'l Hence, on what works has the universal 
testimony of mankind been bestowed 1 Why have such works obtained 
authority as standards of poetical composition 1 What may authority or 
prejudice do ; but when his works come to be examined, what will follow'? 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The division of the subject. 

2. The definition and nature of 

T aste. 

A. Instinct and Reason. 

B. The universality of Taste. 

C. Thevarious degrees of Taste. 

D. The sources of its improve¬ 

ment. 

a. Exercise. 


4. The variations of Taste. 


5. The standard of Taste. 

A. Arguments in favor of a 


3. The characters of Taste. 

A. Delicacy. 

B. Correctness. 


b. Reason and good sense. 

c. Morality. 


standard. 







LECTURE III. 


CRITICISM—GENIUS—PLEASURES OF TASTE- 
SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 

A Criticism is the application of taste and of good sense to 
the several fine arts. Its object is to distinguish what is 
beautiful and what is faulty in every performance; from 
particular instances to ascend to general principles; and so 
to form rules or conclusions concerning the several kinds of 
beauty in works of genius. 

The rules of criticism are not formed by a train of 
abstract reasoning, independent of facts and observations. 
Criticism is an art founded wholly on experience—on the 
observation of such beauties as have been found to please 
mankind most generally. For example: Aristotle’s rules 
concerning the unity of action in dramatic and epic compo¬ 
sitions, were not rules first discovered by logical reasoning, 
and then applied to poetry; but they were drawn from the 
practice of Homer and Sophocles : they were founded upon 
observing the superior pleasure which we receive from the 
relation of an action which is one and entire, beyond what 
we receive from the relation of scattered and unconnected 
facts. Such observations arising at first from feeling a«sid 
experience, were found, on examination, to be so consonant 
to reason and to the principles of human nature, as to pass 
into established rules, and to be conveniently applied for 
judging of the excellency of any performance. 

A masterly genius, it is true, will, of himself, untaught, 
compose in such a manner as shall be agreeable to the most 
material rules of criticism; for, as these rules are founded 
in nature, nature will suggest them in practice. Homer, it 
is more than probable, was acquainted with no system ot 
the art of poetry. Guided by genius alone, he composed, 
in verse, a regular story, which all succeeding ages have 

What is criticism; and what is its object 1 Of the rules of criticism, 
what is observed I On what is criticism founded ; and what illustration 
is given I Of such observations, what is observed 'l In what manner 
may a masterly genius, though untaught, compose; and why'l Wha< 
illustration of this remark is given I 



20 CRITICISM. [Lect. 3. 

admired. But this is no argument against the usefulness 
of criticism as an art : for as no human genius is perfect, 
there is no writer hut may receive assistance from critical 
observations upon the beauties and faults of those who have 
gone before him. No rules can, indeed, supply the defect of 
genius, or inspire it where it is wanting, but they may often 
direct it into its proper channel: they may correct its 
extravagances, and point out to it, the most just and proper 
imitations of nature ? Critical rules are designed chiefly to 
show the faults that ought to be avoided. To nature we 
must be indebted for the production of eminent beauties. 

It has long been the custom of petty authors to inveigh 
against both critics and criticism. They represent critics as 
the great abridgers of the native liberty of genius, and the 
imposers of unnatural shackles and bonds upon writers. 
In these representations they proceed upon the supposition 
that critics judge altogether by rule and not by feeling ; 
which, however, is so far from being true, that they who 
judge in this manner are mere pedants, not critics. For all 
the rules of genuine criticism are ultimately founded on 
feeling; and taste and feeling are necessary to guide us in 
the application of these rules to every particular instance. 

- An objection more plausible may be formed against criti¬ 
cism, from the applause that some performances have received 
from the public, which, when accurately considered, are- 
found to violate the rules established by criticism. Now, 
although the public is the ultimate judge in this matter, yet 
it should be remembered that its judgment is often too hastily 
given. The genuine public taste does not always appear 
in the applause that a work may, on its first publication, 
receive; for, by complying with prevailing prejudices, an 
author may gain great temporary reputation ; but it will be 
only temporary : for the judgment of true criticism, and the 
voice of the public, when once become unprejudiced, and 
dispassionate, will ever coincide. 


Why is this no argument against the usefulness of criticism as an art 1 
Though no rules can supply the defect of genius, or inspire it where it 
is wanting, yet what may they do 7 For what are critical rules designed ; 
and for what must we be indebted to nature % What has long been the 
custom of petty authors ; and how do they represent critics 'l In these 
representations, upon what supposition do they proceed ; and, of those who 
judge in this manner, what is observed ; and why ? From what may an 
objection, more plausible, be formed against criticism 1 Of the public as 
the ultimate judge in this matter, what is remarked 1 How may an author 
gam great temporary reputation ; but why will it be only temporary 1 



Lect. 3.] GENIUS. 21 

*' s There are, it is true, some works that have acquired 
general, and even lasting admiration, notwithstanding the 
gross transgressions of the laws of criticism which they 
contain ; but then we are to remark, that it is not for these 
transgressions that they have gained the public admiration, 
but in spite of them. They possess other beauties which 
are conformable to the strictest rules ; and the force of 
these beauties has been so great as to overpower all censure, 
and to give the public a degree of satisfaction superior to 
the disgust arising from their blemishes. 

As the terms taste and genius are frequently joined 
together, and therefore, by inaccurate thinkers, confounded, 
it is necessary to point out the difference between them. 
Taste consists in the power of judging ; genius, in the power 
of executing. Genius, therefore, deserves to be considered 
as a higher power of the mind than taste : it always imports 
something inventive or creative ; which does not rest in mere 
sensibility to beauty, where it is perceived, but which can 
produce new beauties, and exhibit them in such a manner 
as strongly to impress the minds of others. Refined taste, 
forms the critic ; but genius is necessary to form the poet, or 
the orator. 

Genius, in the common acceptation of the word, extends 
much farther than to the objects of taste. It signifies that 
talent or aptitude which we receive from nature, for excelling 
in any one thing whatever. Thus we speak of a genius for 
mathematics, for poetry, for war, for politics, or for any of 
the mechanical arts. 

Genius may be greatly improved by art and study ; but 
being derived from nature, by them alone it cannot be 
acquired. As it is a higher faculty than taste, it is ever, 
according to the usual frugality of nature, more limited 
in the sphere of its operations. It is not uncommon to meet 
with persons who have an excellent taste in several of the 
polite arts; such as music, poetry, painting, and eloquence: 

There are, however, some works that have acquired what; and why 
is this the case 7 Why is it necessary to point out the difference between 
taste and genius ; and in what do they, respectively, consist 7 How does 
genius, therefore, deserve to be considered; and what does,it always import 7 
Which forms the critic, and which, the poet or the orator 7 WTat does 
genius, in the common acceptation of fhe word, signify; and thus we 
speak of a genius for what 7 How may genius be greatly improved; but 
whv can it not, by them alone, be acquired 7 As it is a higher faculty than 
taste, what follows*? To meet with persons of what description is not un¬ 
common; but what is much more rare 7 




22 PLEASURES OF TASTE. [Lect. 3. 

but to find one who is an excellent performer in all these 
arts, is much more rare; or rather, indeed, such a one is 
not to be looked for. A sort of universal genius, or one who 
is equally and indifferently inclined towards several different 
professions and arts, is not likely to excel in any. Although 
there may be some few exceptions, yet, in general, it is true, 
that when the bent of the mind is wholly directed towards 
some one object exclusively, there is the fairest prospect of 
success in that, whatever it may be. The rays must con¬ 
verge to a point, in order to glow intensely. Youth are 
highly interested in this remark, since it may teach them to 
examine with care, and to pursue with ardor, that path which 
nature has marked out for their peculiar exertions. 

The nature of taste, the nature and importance of criti¬ 
cism, and the distinction between taste and genius, being thus 
explained, the sources of the pleasures of taste are next to 
be considered. Here opens a very extensive field ; no less 
than all the pleasures of the imagination, as they are com¬ 
monly called, whether afforded to us by natural objects, or 
by the imitations and descriptions of them. It is not, how¬ 
ever, necessary to the purpose of this work, that all of these 
should be examined fully; the pleasure which we receive 
'from discourse or writing, being the main object of them. 
All that is proposed is to give some openings into the plea¬ 
sures of taste in general; and to insist more particularly 
upon sublimity and beauty. 

We are far from having yet attained to any system con¬ 
cerning this subject. A regular inquiry into it, was first 
attempted by Mr. Addison, in his Essay on the Pleasures of 
the Imagination. He has reduced these pleasures under 
three heads—beauty, grandeur, and novelty. His specu¬ 
lations on this subject, if not exceedingly profound, are, 
however, very beautiful and entertaining; and he has the 
merit of having opened a track, which was before unbeaten. 
The advances made since his time, in this curious part of 


Of a sort of universal genius, what is observed 1 In what remark 
are youth highly interested; and for what reason I The nature of 
taste, &c., being thus explained, what are next to be considered 1 Here 
how extensive a field opens before us; but why are not all these to 
be examined fully I What, only, is it proposed to do 1 By whom was. a 
regular inquiry into this subject first attempted; and whe-e % Under 
what three heads has he reduced these pleasures; and of his speculations 
on this subject, what is remarked ? Why have not the advances made 
smce his time, in this part of philosophical criticism been very considerate 1 




Lfct. 3.] PLE a&T/k k b Z, jQJ? T 4 S TE. 

philosophical criticism, are not very consiaerahle; owing, 
doubtless, to that thinness and subtilty which are found to be 
properties of all the feelings of taste. It is difficult to 
enumerate the several objects that give pleasure to taste : it 
is more difficult to define all those which have been dis¬ 
covered, and to reduce them under proper classes; and 
when we would go farther, and investigate the efficient 
causes of the pleasure which we receive from such objects, 
here we find ourselves at the greatest loss. For instance, 
we all learn by experience, that certain figures of bodies 
appear to us more Deautiful than others. On inquiring 
farther, we find that the regularity of some figures, and the 
graceful variety of others, are the foundation of the beauty 
which we discern m them; but when we attempt to go a 
step beyond this, and inquire why regularity and variety 
produce, in our minds, the sensation of beauty, any reason we 
can assign is extremely imperfect. 

It is some consolation, however, that although the efficient 
cause be obscure, the final cause of these sensations lies, in 
many cases, more open: and here we must observe, the 
strong impression which the powers of taste and imagi¬ 
nation are calculated to give of the benignity of our Creator. 
By endowing us with such powers, he has widely enlarged 
the sphere of the pleasure of human life ; and those, too, of 
a kind the most pure and innocent. The necessary purposes 
of life might have been abundantly answered, though our 
senses of seeing and hearing had only served to distinguish 
external objects, without conveying to us any of those refined 
and delicate sensations of beauty and grandeur, with which 
we are now so much delighted. 

The pleasure which arises from sublimity or grandeur, 
deserves to be treated at some length, both, because it has a 
character more precise and distinctly marked than any 
other of the pleasures of the imagination, and because it 
coincides more directly with our mam subject. F?^ the 
greater distinctness, the grandeur or sublimity of externa! 


What is a difficult task; and where do we find ourselves at the greatest 
loss'? What do we all learn by experience; and from farther inquiry 
what results 1 What, however, is some consolation; and here, what 
must we observe 'l By endowing us with such powers, what has our 
Creator done; and how might the necessary purposes of life have been 
answered 'l Why does the pleasure which arises from sublimity, deserve 
to be treated at some length; and in considering them, what course, is 
pursued 1 




•*4 SUBUMW'^igf'elSil^TS. [Lect. 3. 

objects themselves, shall first be considered; and afterwards, 
the description of such objects, or, what is called the sublime 
in writing. 

The simplest form of external grandeur, appears in the 
vast and boundless prospects presented to us by nature; 
such as wide extended plains, to which the eye can see no 
limits; the firmament of heaven, or the boundless expanse 
of the ocean. All vastness produces the impression of 
sublimity. It is to be remarked, however, that space ex¬ 
tended in length, makes not so strong an impression as 
height or depth. Though a boundless plain be a grand 
object, yet a high mountain, to which we look up, or an 
awful precipice or tower, whence we look down on the 
objects which lie below,* is still more so. The excessive 
grandeur of the firmament arises from its height, joined to 
its boundless extent; and that of the ocean, not from its 
extent alone, but from its perpetual motion and irresistible 
force. Wherever space is concerned, it is clear that ampli¬ 
tude, or greatness of extent, in one dimension or other, is 
necessary to grandeur. Remove all bounds from any object, 

1 and you immediately render it sublime. Hence, infinite 
I space, endless numbers, and eternal duration, fill the mind 
! with great ideas. 

The most copious source of sublime ideas seems to be 
derived from the exertion of great power and force. Hence 
the grandeur of earthquakes and burning mountains; of 
great conflagrations ; of the boisterous ocean ; of the tem¬ 
pestuous storm; of thunder and lightning; and of all the 
uncommon violence of the elements. A stream which 
glides along gently within its banks is a beautiful object; 
but when it precipitates itself with the impetuosity and noise 
of a torrent, it immediately becomes a sublime one. A race 
horse is beheld with pleasure, but it is the war hc»rse, 
“ whose neck is clothed with thunder,” that carries grandeur 
in its idea. The engagement of two great armies, as it is the 
highest exertion of human might, combines a variety of sources 


In what does the simplest form of external grandeur appear; and what 
instances are mentioned 1 What effect does all vastness produce ; yet what 
is to be remarked; and how is this illustrated 1 From what does the 
excessive grandeur of the firmament arise; and from what, that of the 
ocean 1 Wherever space is concerned, what is dear ? Remove all bounds 
from any object and what will follow; and hence what fills the mind with 
great ideas 1 Whence is the most copious source of sublime ideas 
derived; and hence what follows 7 How is this remark fully illustrated ] 





Lect. 3.] SUBLIMITY OF OBJECTS. 25 

of the sublime ; and has, accordingly, been always consider¬ 
ed one of the most striking and magnificent spectacles 
that can be either presented to the eye, or exhibited to the ima¬ 
gination in description. 

For the farther illustration of this subject, it is proper to 
remark, that all ideas of the solemn and awful kind, and 
even bordering on the terrible, tend greatly to assist the 
sublime; such as darkness, solitude, and silence. The 
firmament when filled with stars scattered in such vast 
numbers, and with such magnificent profusion, strikes the 
imagination with a more awful grandeur than when we view 
it enlightened by all the splendor of the sun. The deep 
sound of a great bell, or the striking of a great clock, are, 
at any time, grand; but when heard amid the silence and 
stillness of the night, they become doubly so. Darkness 
is very commonly applied for adding sublimity to all our 
ideas of the Deity. “ He maketh darkness his pavilion; 
he dwelleth in the thick clouds.” So Milton ; 

-How oft, amidst 

Thick clouds and dark, does Heaven’s all-ruling Sire 
Choose to reside, his glory unobscur’d, 

And with the majesty of darkness round 

Circles his throne.-Book II. 263 

Obscurity, we may farther remark, is also favorable to 
the sublime. Though it render the object indistinct, yet 
the impression may be great; for, as Mr. Burke has 
ingeniously observed, it is one thing to make an idea clear, 
and another, to make it affecting to the imagination. Thus, 
almost all the descriptions given us of the appearances of 
supernatural beings, carry some sublimity, though the con¬ 
ceptions which they afford us be confused and indistinct. 
Their sublimity arises from the ideas, which they always 
convey, of superior power and might, joined with an awful 
obscurity. No ideas, it is plain, are so sublime as those 
taken from the Supreme Being ; the most unknown, but the 
greatest of all objects ; the infinity of whose nature, and 
the eternity of whose duration, joined with the omnipotence 


For the farther illustration of this subject, what is it proper to remark ; 
and what examples are given'? How is this, also, illustrated ? For what 
is darkness very commonly applied; and what illustrations follow I What 
is also favorable to the sublime ; what is remarked of it; and what has Mr. 
Burke ingeniously observed 1 How is this illustrated in the descriptions 
of supernatural beings; and from what does their sublimity arise 1 Of 
the Supreme Being, and of the ideas taken from him what is observed 1 






26 SUBLIMITY OF OBJECTS. TLect. 3 

of his power, though they surpass our conceptions, yet 
exalt them to the highest. 

As is obscurity, so disorder, too, is very compatible with 
grandeur ; nay, it frequently heightens it. Few things that 
are strictly regular and methodical, appear sublime. We 
see the limits on every side; we feel ourselves confined; 
there is no room for the mind to exert any great effort. 
Though exact proportion of parts, often enters into the 
beautiful, yet it is altogether disregarded in the sublime. A 
great mass of rocks, thrown together by the hand of nature 
with wildness and confusion, strikes the mind with more 
grandeur, than if they had been adjusted to one another 
with the most accurate symmetry. 

There still remains to be mentioned, one class of sublime 
objects, which may be called the moral, or sentimental 
sublime; arising from certain exertions of the human mind— 
from certain affections and actions of our fellow-creatures. 
These will be found chiefly of that class, which comes under 
the name of magnanimity or heroism : and they produce an 
effect extremely similar to what is produced by the view of 
grand objects in nature ; filling the mind with admiration, 
and elevating it above itself. Wherever, in some critical 
and dangerous situation, we behold a man uncommonly 
intrepid, and resting upon himself; superior to passion and 
to fear ; animated by some great principle to the contempt 
of popular opinion, of selfish interest, of dangers or of death ; 
we are struck with a sense of the sublime. Thus Porus,. 
when taken prisoner by Alexander, after a gallant defence, 
and asked how he wished to be treated, answering “ Like 
a kingand Caesar, chiding the pilot, who was afraid to 
set out with him in a storm, “ Quid times ? Caesarem vehis 
are good instances of the sentimental sublime. 

Various theories have been formed, to ascertain whether 
we are able to discover some one distinct quality, in which 
all the different objects that produce the sublime, coincide. 
Some have imagined that amplitude, or great extent, joined 
with simplicity, is either immediately, or remotely, the fun- 


As is obscurity, so also what is very compatible with grandeur; and how 
is this fully illustrated 7 What class of sublime objects still remains tc 
be consideredand from what do they arise 7 Under what name do they 
come; and what effect do they produce 7 When are we struck with a 
sense of the sublime; and what instances of illustrationfollow 7 To ascer¬ 
tain what, have various theories been formed 7 What have some imagined 
to be the fundamental quality of the sublime; but, of it, what is observed 7 



27 


Lect. 3.] SUBLIMITY OF OBJECTS. 

damental quality of whatever is sublime; but we have seen 
that amplitude is confined to one species of sublime objects 
only, and cannot, without violent straining, be applied ta 
them all. Mr. Burke supposes that terror is the great source 
of the sublime ; and that no objects have this character, but 
such as produce impressions of pain and danger. It is, 
indeed, true, that many terrible objects are highly sublime; 
and that grandeur does not refuse an alliance with the idea 
of danger. But the sublime does not consist wholly in 
modes of danger, or of pain. In many grand objects, there 
is not the smallest coincidence with terror ; as in the mag¬ 
nificent prospect of wide extended plains, and of the starry 
firmament; or in the moral dispositions and sentiments, 
which we contemplate with high admiration. In many 
painful and terrible objects also, there is evidently no sort 
of grandeur. The amputation of a limb, or the bite of 
a snake, are exceedingly terrible; but are destitute of all 
claim whatever, to sublimity. Mighty force or power, per¬ 
haps, whether attended by terror or not, whether employed 
in protecting or in alarming us, has a better title, than any 
thing that has yet been mentioned, to be considered the fun¬ 
damental quality of the. sublime. There appears to be no 
sublime object, into the idea of which, strength and force, 
either enter not directly, or with which they are not inti¬ 
mately connected, in conducting our thoughts to some 
astonishing power, as concerned in the production of the 
object. 


What is Mr. Burke’s theory; and what is remarked of it 1 What 
has a better title than any thing that has yet been mentioned, to be con¬ 
sidered the fundamental quality of the sublime; and whyI 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Criticism. 

A. The definition of Criticism. 

B. Its nature and object. 

C. Objections to it considered. 

2. Genius. 

A. Taste and Genius distin¬ 

guished. 

B. The nature of Genius, and 

its connection with Taste. 

3. The pleasures of Taste. 


B. The sources of the pleasures 


of Taste. 


4. Sublimity in external objects. 


A. The nature of Sublimity. 

B. The sources of Sublimity. 


c. Disorder. 

C. Moral Sublimity. 

D. The foundation of the Sub- 


a. Solemn and awful objects. 

b. Obscurity. 


A. Mr. Addison’s theory. 


lime. 








LECTUR E IV. 


THE SUBLIME UN WRITING. 

Having treated of grandeur or sublimity in external 
objects, the way seems now to be cleared-! for treating, with 
more advantage, of the descriptions of such objects; or, of 
what is called the sublime in writing. 

The true sense of the sublime in composition is, undoubt 
edly, such a description of objects, or exhibition of senti¬ 
ments, which are, in themselves, of a sublime nature, as 
shall give us strong impressions of them. Its foundation 
must always be laid in the nature of the object described. 
Unless it be such an object as, if presented to our eyes, if 
exhibited to us in reality, would raise ideas of that elevating, 
that awful and magnificent kind, which we call sublime; the 
description, however, finely drawn, is not entitled to come 
under this class. This excludes all objects that are merely 
beautiful, gay, or elegant. Besides, the object must not 
only be, in itself, sublime, but it must be set before us in 
such a light* as is most proper to give us a clear and full 
impression of it; it must be described with strength, with 
conciseness, and simplicity. This depends, chiefly, upon 
the lively impression which the poet, or orator, has of the 
subject which he exhibits; and upon his being deeply 
affected, and warmed, by the sublime idea which he would 
convey. If his own feelings be languid, he can never 
inspire us with any strong emotion. Instances, which are 
extremely necessary on this subject, will clearly show the 
importance of these requisites. , 

It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient authors, 
that we are to look for the most striking instances of the 
sublime. The early ages of the world, and the rude un¬ 
cultivated state of society, appear to have been peculiarly 

Having treated of grandeur, or sublimity in external objects, for what 
does the way now seem cleared 'l YYhat is the true sense of the sublime 
in composition; and where must its foundation always be laid 1 That the 
description may come under this class, it must be an object of what kind ; 
and what objects does this exclude'? Besides being in itself sublime, how 
must the object be set before us, and described 1 On what does this de¬ 
pend ; and if his own feelings be languid, what will follow 1 Among 
what authors are we to look for the most striking instances of the sublime ; 
and why 'l 



Lect. 4.] THE SUBLIME m WRITING. 29 

favorable to the strong emotions of sublimity. The genius 
of mankind was then very prone to admiration and astonish¬ 
ment. Meeting continually with uew and strange objects, 
their imagination was kept glowing, and their oassions were 
raised to the utmost. They thought and exoressed them¬ 
selves boldly, and without restraint. In the nrogress of 
society, the genius and manners of men have undergone a 
change more favorable to accuracy, than to strength or 
sublimity. 

Of all writings, ancient or modern, the Sacred Scriptures 
afford us the highest instances of the sublime. The descrip¬ 
tions of the Deity, in them, are wonderfully noble—both 
from the grandeur of the object, and the manner of repre¬ 
senting it. What an assemblage, for instance, of awful 
and sublime ideas is presented to us, in that passage of the 
XVIIIth Psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is 
described: “ In my distress I called upon the Lord : be 
heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before 
him. Then, the earth shook and trembled ; the foundation* 
also of the hills were moved ; because he was wroth. 
bowed the heavens, and came down, and darkness was unde* 
his feet; and he did ride upon a Cherub, and did fly ; yea 
he d*d fly upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness 
his secret place,; his pavilion round about him were dark 
waters, and thick clouds of the sky.” Here, the circum 
stances of darkness and terror, are applied with great 
propriety and success, for heightening the sublime. The 
noted instance given by Longinus, from Moses, “ God said, 
let there be light; and there was light,” belongs to the true 
sublime ; and the sublimity of it arises from the strong con 
ception it gives, of an exertion of power, producing its 
effect with the utmost speed and facility. A thought of the 
same kind is magnificently amplified in the 24th, 27th, and 
28th verses of the LXIVth chapter of Isaiah. 

Homer is a poet, who, in all ages, and by all critics, has 


To what was the genius of mankind then prone; and what follows 1 
In the progress of society, what change have the genius and manners 
of men undergone 'l Of all writings, which affords us the highest instances 
of the sublime • and of the descriptions of the Deity in them, what is 
observed 1 Repeat the passage from the XVIIIth Psalm, illustrative of this 
remark : and of it what is observed 1 What instance is given by Longi¬ 
nus, from Moses; and from what does its sublimity arise I Where is a 
thought of the same kind magnificently amplified % W hat is observed of 
Homer; and to what is he indebted for his sublimity % 



30 THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. [Lect. 4. 

been greatly admired for bis sublimity; and he is much 
indebted for it, to that native and unaffected simplicity which 
characterizes his manner. His description of hosts en¬ 
gaging ; the animation, the fire, and rapidity which he 
throws into his battles, present to every reader of the Iliad, 
frequent instances of sublime writing. His introduction of the 
gods, tends often to heighten, in a high degree, the majesty 
of his warlike scenes. In the XXth book, where all the 
gods take part in the engagement, according as they severally 
favor either the Grecians or the Trojans, the poet’s genius 
is signally displayed, and the description rises into the most 
awful magnificence. All nature seems to be in commotion. 
Jupiter thunders in the heavens ; Neptune strikes the earth 
with his trident; the ships, the city, and the mountains 
shake ; the earth trembles to its centre ; Pluto starts from 
his throne, in dread, lest the secrets of the infernal regions 
should be laid open to the view of mortals. The following 
is Mr. Pope’s translation of the passage alluded to ; which, 
though, perhaps, inferior to the original, is yet highly ani¬ 
mated and sublime. 

But when the powers descending swell’d the fight, 

Then tumult rose, fierce rage, and pale affright: 

Now through the trembling shores Minerva calls, 

As now she thunders from the Grecian walls. 

Mars, hov’ring o’er his Troy, his terror shrouds 
In gloomy tempests, and a night of clouds; 

Now through each Trojan heart he fury pours, 

With v6ice divine, from Illion’s topmost towers— 

Above, the sire of gods his thunder rolls, 

And peals on peals redoubled, rend the poles; 

Beneath, stern Neptune shakes the solid ground, 

The forests wave, the mountains nod around; 

Through all her summits tremble Ida’s woods, 

And from their sources boil her hundred floods j 
Troy’s turrets totter on the rocking plain, 

And the toss’d navies beat the heaving main. 

Deep in the dismal region of the dead. 

The infernal monarch reared his horrid head, 

Leap’d from his throne, lest Neptune’s arm should lay 
His dark dominions open to the day ; 

And pour in light on Pluto’s drear abodes, 

Abhorr’d by men, and dreadful e’en to god’s. 

Such wars the immortals wage ; such horror’s rend 
The world’s vast concave when the gods contend. 


What present, to every reader of the Iliad, frequent instances of sublime 
writing 1 What is observed of his introduction of the gods; and of the 
passage from the XXth. book what is remarked I Repeat Mr. Pope’s 
translation of it. 



fiECT. 4.] SUBLIME IN WRITING. 31 

The works of Ossian abound with examples of the sublime. 
The subjects of which that author treats, and the manner ir\ 
which he writes, are particularly favorable to it. He 
possesses all the plain and venerable manner of the ancient 
times. He deals in no superfluous or gaudy ornaments ; 
but throws forth his images with a rapid conciseness, which 
enables them to strike the mind with the greatest force. 
Among poets of more polished times we are to look for 
the graces of correct writing, for just proportion of parts, 
and skilfully conducted narratives. But amidst the rude 
scenes of nature and of society, such as Ossian describes; 
amidst rocks and torrents, and whirlwinds and battles, 
dwells the sublime ; and naturally associates itself with that 
grave and solemn spirit which distinguishes the author of 
Fingal. 

These instances have been produced, in order to show how 
essential conciseness and simplicity are to sublime writing. 
Simplicity is properly opposed to studied and profuse orna¬ 
ment ; and conciseness to superfluous expression. Why a 
defect, either in conciseness or simplicity, is peculiarly hurt¬ 
ful to the sublime, may be easily seen. The emotion ex¬ 
cited in the mind by some great or noble object, raises it 
considerably above its common pitch. A sort of enthusiasm 
is produced extremely agreeable while it lasts; but from which 
the mind is tending every moment to fall into its ordinary 
tone. When an author, therefore, has brought us, or is 
attempting to bring us into this state; if he multiplies words 
unnecessarily, if he decks the sublime object on all sides with 
glittering ornaments ; nay, if he throws in any one decoration 
which falls, in the least, below the principal image, that mo¬ 
ment he altars the key; he relaxes the tension of the mind ; 
the strength of the feeling is emasculated ; the beautiful may 
remain, but the sublime is gone. Homer’s description of 
the nod of Jupiter, as shaking the heavens, has been admired 
in all ages, as highly sublime. Literally translated, it runs 
thus : “ He spoke, and bending his sable brows, gave the 
awful nod ; while he shook the celestial locks of his immor- 


What is observed of the works of Ossian; and why are they so sublime 'l 
For what are we to look among poets of more modern times; but where 
dwells the sublime, and with what does it naturally associate itself'? Why 
have these instances been produced; and to what are they respectively 
opposed'? Why is a defect in either, peculiarly hurtful to the sublime 1 
What is remarked of Homer’s description of the nod of Jupiter; and how 
is it literally translated % 



32 SUBLIME IN WRITING. [Lect. 4. 

tal head, all Olympus was shaken.” The following is Mr. 
Pope’s translation: 


He spoke : and awful bends his sable brows, 
Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod. 

The stamp of fate, and sanction of a god. 

High heaven with trembling the dread signal took, 
And all Olympus to its centre shook. 


The image is spread out, and attempted to be beautified ; 
but it is, in reality, weakened. The third line—“ The stamp 
of fate, and sanction of a god,” is merely expletive, and 
introduced for no other reason than to fill up the rhyme ; 
for it interrupts the description and clogs the image. For 
the same reason, Jupiter is represented as shaking his locks 
before he gives the nod ;—“ Shakes his ambrosial curls and 
gives the nodwhich is trifling and insignificant : whereas, 
in the original, the hair of his head shaken, is the effect of 
his nod, and makes a happy picturesque circumstance in the 
description. 

The boldness, freedom, and variety, of our blank verse, 
is infinitely more favorable than rhyme, to all kinds of 
sublime poetry. The fullest proof of this is afforded by 
Milton—an author, whose genius led him eminently to the 
sublime. The whole first and second books of Paradise 
Lost, are continued instances of it. Take only, for an 
example, the following noted description of Satan, after his 
fall, appearing at the head of the infernal host: 

-He, above the rest, 

In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 

Stood like a tower ; his form had not yet lost 
All her original brightness, nor appeared 
Les3 than archangel ruined; and the excess 
Of glory obscur’d: as when the sun new risen, 

Looks through the horizontal misty air, 

Shorn of his beams; or from behind the moon, 

In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
On half the nations, and with fear of change 
Perplexes monarchs. Darken’d so, yet shone 
Above them all th’ archangel.- 


Here concur a variety of sources of the sublime: th» 
principal object eminently great; a high superior nature. 

What is Mr. Pope’s translation; what is observed of it; and why ? 
Of our blank verse what is observed? By whom is the fullest proof of 
this offered; and of his genius, what is remarked? What books are 
continued instances of this ; and what example is given? Of this passage 
what is remarked ? 





Lett. 4.] SUBLIME IN WRITING. 33 

fallen indeed, but erecting- itself against distvess; the 
grandeur of the principal object heightened, by associating 
it with so noble an idea as that of the sun suffering an 
eclipse; this picture shaded with all those images of change 
and trouble, of darkness and terror, which coincide so finely 
with the sublime emotion; and the whole expressed in a 
style and versification, easy, natural, and simple, but mag 
nificent. 

Besides simplicity and conciseness, strength, also, is 
essentially necessary to sublime writing. The strength of 
description arises, in a great measure, from a simple concise¬ 
ness ; but it also implies something more ; namely, a proper 
choice of circumstances in the description, so as to exhibit 
the object in its full and most striking point of view. For 
every object has several faces, so to speak, by which it 
may be presented to us, according to the circumstances with 
which we surround it; and it will appear eminently sublime, 
or not, in proportion as all these circumstances are happily 
chosen, and of a sublime kind. In this the great art of the 
writer consists ; and it is, indeed, the principal difficulty of 
sublime description. If the description be too general, and 
divested of circumstances, the object appears in a faint light; 
and makes either a feeble impression, or no impression at all, 
on the reader. At the same time, if any trivial or improper 
circumstances are mingled, the whole is degraded. 

The nature of the emotion aimed at in sublime descrip¬ 
tion, is such, as to admit of no mediocrity, and cannot subsist 
in a middle state ; but must either highly transport us, or, if 
unsuccessful in the execution, leave us greatly disappointed 
and displeased. We attempt to rise along with the writer ; 
the imagination is awakened, and put upon the stretch ; but 
' it requires to be supported ; and if, in the midst of its efforts, 
you desert it unexpectedly, down it comes with a painful 
shock. When Milton, in his battle of the angels, describes 
them as tearing up the mountains, and throwing them at one 
another ; there are, in his description, as Mr. Addison 
has observed, no circumstances but what are properly sub¬ 
lime : 


Besides simplicity and conciseness, what, also, is essential to sublime 
writing ; and from what does it arise'? Why is this the case 1 Why is 
this the principal difficulty of sublime description'? Of the nature of the 
emotion aimed at in sublime description what is observed; and why ? 
How is this remark illustrated from Milton’s battle of the angels ? 



34 SUBLIME IN WRITING. [Lect.4 

Prom their foundations loos’ning to and fro, 

They pluck’d the seated hills, with all their load, 

Rocks, waters, woods ; and by the shaggy tops 
Uplifting, bore them in their hands. 

This idea of the giants throwing the mountains, which is 
in itself so grand, is rendered, by Claudian, burlesque and 
ridiculous ; by the single circumstance, of one of his giants 
with the mountain Ida upon his shoulders, and a river which 
flowed from the mountain, running down along the giant’s 
back, as he held it up in that posture. In Virgil’s descrip¬ 
tion of mount iEtna, there is an inaccuracy of the same 
kind. After several magnificent images, the poet concludes 
with representing the mountain as “ belching up its bowels 
with a groan which, by likening the mountain to a sick 
or drunken pers6n, degrades the majesty of the description. 

Such instances show how much the sublime depends upon 
a just selection of circumstances ; and with how great care 
every circumstance must be avoided, which, by bordering in 
the least upon the mean, or even upon the gay or trifling, 
alters the tone of the emotion. 

If it shall now he inquired, what are the proper sources of 
the sublime, we answer, that they are to be found everywhere 
in nature. It is not by hunting after tropes, and figures, 
and rhetorical assistance, that we can expect to produce it; 
for it stands clear, for the most part, of these labored refine¬ 
ments of art. It must come unsought, if it comes at all; and 
be the natural offspring of a strong imagination. 

What is commonly called the sublime style, is, for the 
most part, a very bad one; and has no relation, whatever, 
to the real sublime. Persons are apt to imagine, that magni¬ 
ficent words, accumulated epithets, and a certain swelling 
kind of expression, by rising above what is usual or vulgar, 
contributes to, or even forms the sublime: but nothing, in 
reality, is more false. In genuine instances of sublime 
writing, nothing of this kind appears. “ God said, let there 
be light; and there was light.” This is striking and 


Repeat the passage. By whom is this idea rendered burlesque and ridicu¬ 
lous ; and in what way % What inaccuracy of the same kind is found in 
Virgil’s description of mount -/Etnal What do such instances show ? 
Where are the proper sources of the sublime to be found; and how is 
this illustrated'? Of what is commonly called a sublime style, what is 
observed 1 What are writers apt to imagine; why is this false, and what 
illustration follows I In all good writing, where does the sublime, in 
general, lie; and what follows I 



Lect. 4.] SUBLIME IN WRITING. 35 

sublime. But put it into what is commonly called the sub¬ 
lime style : “ The Sovereign Arbiter of nature, by the potent 
energy of a single word, commanded the light to exist 
and, as has been well observed, the style indeed is raised 
but the thought is fallen. In general it may be observed, 
that, in all good writing, the sublime lies in the thought, not 
in the expression; and when the thought is truly noble, it 
will, for the most part, clothe itself in a native dignity of 
language. 

The faults opposite to the sublime are chiefly two : the 
frigid and the bombast. The frigid consists, in degrading 
an object or sentiment, which is sublime in itself, by mean 
conception of it; or by a weak, low, and childish description 
of it. This betrays entire absence, or at least, great poverty 
of genius. Of this there are abundance of examples, 
and these commented upon with much humor, in the Treatise 
on the Art of Sinking, by Dean Swift. The bombast lies, 
in forcing an ordinary or trivial object out of its rank, and 
endeavoring to raise it into the sublime; or, in attempting 
to exalt a sublime object beyond all natural and reasonable 
bounds. Into this error, which is but too common, writers 
of genius may sometimes fall, by unluckily losing sight of 
the true point of the sublime. This is also called fustian or 
rant; and Dryden and Lee, in their tragedies, abound with it. 

We have treated thus fully of the sublime, because it is 
so capital an excellency in fine writing, and because clear 
and precise ideas on this head, are seldom to be met with in 
critical writers. 


What are the faults opposite to the sublime I In what does the frigid 
consist; and what does it betray I Of these what is remarked 'l In 
what does the bombast lie I How may writers of genius sometimes fall 
into this error I What is this also called; and who abound with it I 
Why have we treated thus fully of the sublime'? 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The foundation of the sublime. 

2. Instances of sublime writing. 

A. The Sacred Scriptures. 

B. Homer’s poems. 

C. The works of Ossian. 

D. Milton’s poems. 

3. Essentials to the sublime. 

A. Conciseness and simplicity. 


B. Strength. 

4. The sources of the sublime. 

5. The nature of a sublime emo¬ 

tion. 

6 . A sublime style. 

7. Opposites to the sublime. 

A. Frigid style. 

B. Bombastic style. 







LECTURE V. 

BEAUTY AND OTHER PLEASURES OF 1 ASTE 


Beauty, next to sublimity, affords, beyond doubt, the highest 
pleasure to the imagination. The emotion which it raises, 
may be easily distinguished from that-of sublimity. It is of 
a calmer kind ; more gentle and soothing ; does not elevate 
the mind so much, but produces an agreeable serenity. 
Sublimity raises a feeling, too violent to be lasting ; the 
pleasure arising from beauty admits of longer continuance. 
It extends, also, to a much greater variety of objects than 
sublimity; to a variety indeed so great, that the feelings 
which beautiful objects produce, differ considerably, not in 
degree only, but also in kind, from one another. Hence, 
no word in the language is used with less discrimination 
than beauty. It is applied to almost every external object 
that pleases the eye or the ear; to a great number of the 
graces of writing ; to many dispositions of the mind ; and, 
even to several objects of mere abstract science. We talk 
currently of a beautiful tree or flower ; a beautiful poem: 
a beautiful character; and. a beautiful theorem in mathe¬ 
matics. 

Hence, we may easily perceive, that among so great a 
variety of objects, to find out some one quality in which they 
all agree, and which is the foundation of that agreeable 
sensation which they all raise, must be a very difficult, if not 
a vain attempt. Hypotheses, however, have been framed by 
ingenious men, for ascertaining the fundamental quality of 
[beauty in all objects. In particular, uniformity amidst 
variety, has been insisted on as the fundamental quality. 
This, however, will not apply to color or motion ; nor will 
it apply to all figured objects, since some please which have 
very little variety, and others, which are various to a degree 


How may the emotion which beauty raises, be distinguished from that 
of sublimity? Of the variety of objects to which beauty extends, what is 
remarked ? Hence, to what is it applied ; and of what do we currently 
talk ? What must, consequently, among so great a variety of objects, be 
a very difficult task ? For what have hypotheses been framed ; and what 
has been insisted on, as its fundamental quality ? To what, however 
will not this apply; and why ? 





Lect. 5.] BE A ITT Y. 37 

of intricacy. Laying systems, therefore, aside, we shall 
give an enumeration of several of those classes of objects 
in which beauty most remarkably appears ; and point out, 
as far as possible, the separate principles of beauty in each 
of them. 

Color affords, perhaps, the simplest instance of beauty. 
Here, neither variety, nor uniformity, nor any other assign¬ 
able principle, can be considered as its foundation. We can 
refer it to no other cause but the structure of the eye, which 
determines us to receive certain modifications of the rays of 
light with more pleasure than others. Association of ideas, 
it is probable, however, has some influence. Green, for 
instance, may appear more beautiful, by being connected in 
our ideas with rural scenes and prospects ; white, with 
innocence ; blue, with the serenity of the sky. Independent 
of associations of this kind, all that we can farther observe 
respecting colors is, that those chosen for beauty are, gene¬ 
rally, delicate, rather than glaring. Such are the feathers of 
several kinds of birds, the leaves of flowers, and the fine 
variation of colors exhibited by the sky at the rising and 
setting of the sun. 

From color we proceed to figure, which opens to us forms 
of beauty more complex and diversified. Regularity first 
occurs to be noticed as a source of beauty. By a regular 
figure, is meant, one which we perceive to be formed accord¬ 
ing to some certain rule, and not left arbitrary or loose in 
the construction of its parts. Thus a circle, a square, or a 
triangle, pleases the eye, by its regularity, as a beautiful 
figure: yet a certain graceful variety is perceived to be a 
much more powerful principle of beauty. Regularity ap¬ 
pears beautiful to us, chiefly, if not solely, because it suggests 
the ideas of fitness, propriety, and use, which have always a 
more intimate connection with orderly and proportionate 
forms, than with those which appear not constructed accord¬ 
ing to any certain rule. Nature, who is, doubtless, the most 


Laying systems, therefore, aside^what is proposed to be done ! What, 
perhaps, affords the simplest instance of beauty; and of it, what is ob¬ 
served ? What, perhaps, has some influence; and what illustrations are 
given ! Independent of such associations, what only can we farther ob¬ 
serve ; and what instances are mentioned! From color, to what do we 
proceed ; and of its beauty what is observed! What first occurs to be 
noticed as a source of beauty ; by it what is meant; and what are the 
examples 1 Why does regularity appear beautiful; and of those qualities 
what is remarked ! From the course that nature pursues in this respect, 
what illustration is given 1 


4 



38 BEAUTY. [Lect. 5. 

graceful artist, hath, in all her ornamental works, pursued 
variety with an apparent neglect of regularity. Cabinets, 
doors, and windows, are made after a regular form, in cubes 
and parallelograms, with exact proportion of parts, and by 
being so formed they please the eye : for this good reason, 
that, being works of use, they are, by such figures, the better 
suited to the ends for which they were designed. But plants, 
flowers, and leaves, are full of variety and diversity. A 
straight canal is an insipid figure, in comparison of the 
meanders of rivers. Cones and pyramids are beautiful; 
but trees growing in their natural wildness, are infinitely 
more beautiful than when trimmed into pyramids and cones. 
The apartments of a house must he regular in their dispo¬ 
sition, for the convenience of its inhabitants; hut a garden 
which is designed merely for beauty, would be extremely 
disgusting, if it had as much uniformity and order in its 
parts as a dwelling-house. 

Motion furnishes another source of beauty, distinct from 
figure. Motion, of itself, is pleasing; and bodies in motion, 
are universally preferred to those at rest. It is, however, 
gentle motion only, that belongs to the beautiful; for when 
it is very swift, or very forcible, such as that of a torrent, it 
partakes of the sublime. The motion of a bird gliding 
through the air, is extremely beautiful ; but the swiftness 
with which lightning darts through the heavens, is mag¬ 
nificent and astonishing. And here, it is proper to observe, 
that the sensations of sublime and beautiful, are not always 
distinguished by very distant boundaries ; but are capable, 
in many instances, of approaching towards each other. 
Thus, a smooth running stream, is one of the most beautiful 
objects in nature: as it swells gradually into a great river, 
the beautiful, by degrees, is lost in the sublime. A young 
tree is a beautiful object; a spreading ancient oak, is a 
venerable and grand one. The calmness of a fine morning 
is beautiful; the universal stillness of the evening is highly 
sublime. But to return to the beauty of motion ; it will 

How are cabinets, doors, and windows, made ; and why do they please \ 
But what are full of diversity and variety'? How is this subject farther 
illustrated from a straight canal, cones, and pyramids, the apartments of a 
house, and a garden 'l What furnishes another source of beauty, distinct 
from figure ; and of it, what is remarked 1 What motion, only, belongs 
to the beautiful; and why7 How is this remark illustrated 1 Here, 
what is it proper to observe ; and what illustrations follow ? But to return 
to the beauty of motion, what will generally hold true; and what instance is 
mentioned 




Lect. 5.] BEAUTY. 39 

be found to hold, very generally, that motion in a stiaight 
line is not so beautiful as in a waving direction ; and motion 
upwards is also, generally, more agreeable than motion 
downwards. The easy curling motion of flame and smoke, 
is an object singularly agreeable. Mr. Hogarth observes, 
very ingeniously, that all the common and necessary motions 
for the business of life, are performed by men in straight or 
plain lines ; but that all the graceful and ornamental move¬ 
ments are made in waving lines—an observation worthy oi 
the attention of those who study the grace of gesture and 
action. 

Though color, figure, and motion, are separate princi¬ 
ples of beauty ; yet in many beautiful objects they all meet, 
and render the beauty both greater and more complex. 
Thus, in flowers, trees, and animals, we are entertained, at 
once, with the delicacy of the color, with the gracefulness of 
the figure, and sometimes also with the motion of the object. 
Perhaps the most complete assemblage of beautiful objects 
that can any where be found, is presented by a rich natural 
landscape, where there is a sufficient variety of objects— 
fields m verdure, scattered trees and flowers, running water, 
and animals grazing. If to these be joined some of the pro¬ 
ductions of art, which suit such a scene; as a bridge with 
arches over a river, smoke rising from cottages in the midst 
of trees, and the distant view of a fine building seen by the 
rising sun; we then enjoy, in the highest perfection, that 
gay, cheerful, and placid sensation which characterizes 
beauty. 

The beauty of the human countenance is more complex 
than any that we have yet considered. It includes the 
beauty of color, arising from the delicate shades of the com¬ 
plexion ; and the beauty of figure, arising from the lines 
which form the different features of the face. But the chief 
beauty of the countenance depends upon a mysterious ex¬ 
pression, which it conveys, of the qualities of the mind; of 
good sense, or good humor; of sprightliness, candor, benevo- 


What has Mr. Hogarth very ingeniously observed; and of this obser¬ 
vation what is remarked ? When color, figure, and motion, all meet in the 
same object, what is their effect 1 Thus, in flowers, trees, and animals, 
with what are we entertained at the same time 1 By what is the most 
complete assemblage of beautiful objects that can any where be found, pre¬ 
sented ; and how may its beauty be rendered perfect 'l Of the beauty of 
the human countenance what is remarked; and what does it include 'l 
But upon what does its chief beauty depend 1 



40 BEAUTY. [Lect. 5. 

lence, sensibility, or other amiable dispositions. How h 
comes to pass that a certain conformation of features, is 
connected in our idea with certain moral qualities, belongs 
not to us now to inquire ; but the fact is certain, that what 
gives the human countenance its most distinguishing beauty, 
is what is called its expression ; or an image, which it is 
conceived to show of internal moral dispositions. 

It may also be observed, that there are certain qualities of 
the mind, which, whether expressed in the countenance, or 
by words, or by actions, always raise in us a feeling similar 
to that of beauty. There are two great classes of moral 
qualities; one is of the high and the grave virtues, which 
require extraordinary efforts, and turn upon dangers and 
sufferings; as heroism, magnanimity, contempt of pleasures, 
and contempt of death. These excite, in the spectator, an 
emotion of sublimity and grandeur. The other class is 
chiefly of the social virtues, and such as are of a softer and' 
gentler kind; as compassion, mildness, friendship, and 
generosity. These excite, in the beholder, a sensation of 
pleasure, so nearly allied to that excited by beautiful exter¬ 
nal objects, that, though of a more dignified nature, it may, 
without impropriety, be classed under the same head. 

Having mentioned so many different species of beauty, it 
now only remains to take notice of beauty as it is applied to 
writing or discourse. In its proper and appropriate sense, 
beauty of writing characterizes a particular manner, and 
signifies a certain grace and amenity in the turn either of 
style or sentiment, for which some authors have been pecu¬ 
liarly distinguished. In this sense, it denotes a manner 
neither remarkably sublime, nor vehemently passionate, nor 
uncommonly sparkling; but such as raises in the reader 
an emotion of the gentle, placid kind, similar to that which 
is raised by the contemplation of beautiful objects in nature ; 
which neither lifts the mind very high, nor agitates it very 
much, but diffuses over the imagination an agreeable and 
pleasing serenity. Mr. Addison is a writer altogether of 
this character ; and is one of the most proper examples that 


What belongs not to us now to inquire - T but what is certain 7 Of 
certain qualities of the mind, what may also be observed 7 What are the 
two great classes of moral qualities ; and what emotion do they respectively 
excite 7 Having mentioned so many species of beauty, what only remains 
to be noticed 7 In its proper and appropriate sense, what does beauty of 
writing signify ; and in this sense what manner does it denote 7 Who are 
writers of this character ; and what is remarked of them 7 



Lect. 5.] SUBLIMITY OF OBJECTS. 41 

can be given. of it. Feneion, the author of the Adventures 
of Telemachus, may he given as another example. Virgil, 
too, though very capable of rising on occasions into the 
sublime, yet, in his general manner, is distinguished by the 
character of beauty and grace, rather than of sublimity. 
Among orators, Cicero has more of the beautiful than De¬ 
mosthenes, whose genius led him wholly towards vehemence 
and strength. 

Thus much it is necessary to have said upon the subject 
of beauty; since, next to sublimity, it is the most copious 
source of the pleasures of taste. But it is not by appearing 
under the forms of the sublime or beautiful only, that objects 
delight the imagination. They likewise derive their power 
of giving it pleasure from several other principles. 

Novelty, for instance, has been mentioned by Mr. Addi¬ 
son, and by every other writer on this subject. An object 
which has no merit to recommend it, except its being un¬ 
common or new, by means of this quality alone, produces 
in the*mind a vivid and an agreeable emotion. Hence, that 
passion of curiosity which prevails so generally among 
mankind. Objects and ideas which have been long familiar, 
make too faint an impression to give an agreeable exercise 
to our faculties. New and strange objects rouse the mind 
from its dormant state, by giving it a sudden and pleasing 
impulse. Hence, in a great measure, the entertainment 
afforded us by fiction and romance. The emotion raised by 
novelty is of a more lively and pungent nature, than that 
produced by beauty ; but much shorter in its continuance. 
For, if the object has in itself no charms ta hold our atten¬ 
tion, the shining gloss thrown upon it by novelty soon wears 
off. 

Besides novelty, imitation is another source of pleasure 
to taste. This gives rise to what Mr. Addison terms, the 
secondary pleasures of imagination; which form, doubtless, 
a very extensive class. For all imitation conveys some 
pleasure to the mind; not only the imitation of beautiful or 


Why is it necessary to have said thus much upon beauty; but what fol¬ 
lows 7 What has been mentioned by Mr. Addison, as affording pleasure 
to the imagination 7 An object of what sort will produce an agreeable 
emotion in the mind ; and hence what passion prevails 7 Of objects and 
ideas that have been long familiar, what is remarked; what effect do new 
and strange objects produce; and hence what follows 7 Of the emotion 
raised by novelty, what is observed; and why 7 Besides novelty, what is 
another source of pleasure to taste 7 This gives rise to what; and why 
do they form a very extensive class. 

4 * 



42 IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Lect. 5. 

sublime objects, by recalling the original ideas of beauty or 
grandeur which such objects themselves exhibit; but even 
objects which have neither beauty nor grandeur ; nay, some 
which are terrible or deformed, please us in a secondary, 
or represented view. 

The pleasures of melody and harmony belong also to 
taste. There is no agreeable sensation we receive either 
from beauty or sublimity, but what is capable of being 
heightened by the power of musical sound. Hence the 
charm of poetical numbers, and even the more concealed and 
looser measure of prose. Wit, humor, and ridicule, like¬ 
wise open a variety of pleasures to taste, quite distinct from 
any that has yet been considered. 

At present it is not necessary to pursue the subject of the 
pleasures of taste any farther. We have opened some of the 
general principles ; it is time now to apply them to our chief 
subject. If the question be asked, to what class of those 
pleasures of taste which have been enumerated, that pleasure 
is to be referred which we receive from poetry, eloquence, 
or tine writing; the answer is, not to any one, but to them 
all. This singular advantage writing and discourse pos¬ 
sess, that they encompass so large and fruitful a field on 
all sides, and have power to exhibit in great perfection, not a 
single set of objects only, but almost the whole of those which 
give pleasure to taste and imagination ; whether that plea¬ 
sure arise from sublimity, from beauty in its various forms, 
from moral sentiments, from novelty, from harmony, or from 
wit, humor, and ridicule. To whichsoever of these the 
peculiar bent of the person’s taste lies, from some writer or 
other, he has it always in his power to receive the gratifi¬ 
cation of it. 

It has been usual among critical writers, to treat of dis 
course as the chief of all the imitative arts. They compare 
it with painting and with sculpture, and, in many respects, 
prefer it justly to them. But it must be observed, that 


How does it appear that the pleasures of melody and harmony belong 
also to taste ; and hence what follows 'l Of wit, humor, and ridicule, 
what is remarked'? As we have now opened some of the principles of the 
pleasures of taste, what is it time to do? If the question be asked to what 
class of those pleasures of taste which we have been enumerating is to be 
referred, the pleasure which we receive from poetry, &c., what answer is to 
be given ? What singular advantage do writing and discourse possess ? 
How has it been usual among critical writers to treat of discourse; and 
to what do they compare it ? But what must be observed, and how is this 
illustrated ? 



Lect. 5.] IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. 43 

imifation and description differ considerably in their nature 
from each other. Words have no natural resemblance to 
the ideas or objects which they are employed to signify; 
but a statue or a picture has a natural likenesg to the original. 
Hence, to describe a thing is to tell what it is ; but to imitate 
it, is to show what it is. 

As far, however, as the poet introduces into his work per¬ 
sons really speaking, and by the words which he puts into 
their mouths, represents the conversation which they might 
be supposed to hold ; so far his art may more accurately be 
called imitative; and this is the case in all dramatic com¬ 
positions. But in narrative or descriptive workif, it can, with 
no propriety, be called so. Who, for instance, would call 
Virgil’s description of a tempest, in the first iEniad, an 
imitation of a storm ! Should we hear of the imitation of a 
battle, we would naturally think of some mock fight, or 
representation of a battle on the stage, but would never app: e- 
hend that it meant one of Homer’s descriptions in the Iliad. 
It must be admitted, at the same time, that imitation and 
description agree in their principal effect, of recalling, by 
external signs, the ideas of things which we do not see. 
But though in this they coincide, yet it should not be for¬ 
gotten, that the terms themselves are not synonymous —that 
they impart different means for effecting the same end , and, 
of course, make different impressions on the mind. 


Hence, what is the difference between describing a thing, and telling 
what it is I How far may the poet’s art be said to be imitative; and in 
what compositions is this the case 'l How is the remark illustrated, that it 
is not so in descriptive works ; but what must, at the same time, be 
admitted'? But though in this they coincide, yet what should not be 
forgotten I 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Beauty. 


G. The beauty of the humaii 


A. The nature of beauty. 

B. Hypotheses of beauty. 

C. The beauty of colors. 

D. The beauty of figures. 


a. Hogarth’s analysis. 
E. The beauty of motion. 


2. Novelty. 

3. Imitation. 

4. Melody and harmony. 

5. W riting and discourse. 


H. Moral beauty. 

I. Beauty of design. 
K. Beauty of writing. 


countenance. 


F. Color, figure, and motion, 
united. 






LECTURE VI. 

RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 

Language, which is the foundation of all eloquence, 
signifies, in general, the expression of our ideas by certain 
articulate sounds, which are used as the signs of those ideas. 
The connection between, words and ideas may, in general, 
be considered as arbitrary and conventional, owing to the 
agreement of men among themselves; the clear proof of 
which is, that different nations have different languages, or 
a different set of articulate sounds, which they have chosen 
for communicating their ideas. 

This artificial method of communicating thought, we now 
behold carried to the highest perfection. Language is be¬ 
come a vehicle by which the most delicate and retired 
emotions of one mind can be transmitted, or transfused into 
another. Not only are names given to all objects around us, 
by which means an easy and speedy intercourse is carried on 
for providing the necessaries of life, hut all the relations and 
differences among these objects are minutely marked, the 
invisible sentiments of the mind are described, the most 
abstract notions and conceptions are rendered intelligible; 
and all the ideas which science can discover, or imagination 
create, are known by their proper names. Nay, language 
has been carried so far as to be made an instrument of the 
most refined luxury. Not resting in mere perspicuity, we 
require ornament also; not satisfied with having the con¬ 
ceptions of others made known to us, we make a farther 
demand, to have them so decked and adorned as to entertain 
our fancy ; and this demand it is found very possible to 
gratify. 

But in order to form an adequate idea of the origin of lan- 


What does language signify 1 Why may the connection between words 
and ideas be considered arbitrary and conventional; and of this, what is a 
clear proofs In what state do we now behold this artificial method of 
communication ; and what is language become I How is this remark illus¬ 
trated % How does it appear that language has been carried so far as to 
be made an instrument of the most refined luxury 1 But in order to form 
an adequate idea of the origin of language, what is necessary; and at 
that time, in what condition were mankind I 



Iect. 6 J RISE AND PROGRESS, &c. 45 

guage, it is necessary to contemplate the circumstances of 
mankind in their earliest and rudest state. They were then 
a wandering, scattered race; no society among them except 
families ; and the family society, too, very imperfect, as their 
method of living by hunting and pasturage must have sepa¬ 
rated them frequently from one another. In this situation, 
when so much divided, and their intercourse so rare, how 
could any one set of sounds, or words, be generally agreed 
on as the signs of their ideas ? Supposing that a few, whom 
chance or necessity threw together, agreed, by some means, 
upon certain signs ; yet by what authority could these be 
propagated among other tribes, or families, so as to spread 
and grow up into a language ? One would think, that in 
order for any language to fix and extend itself, men must 
have been previously gathered together in considerable 
numbers ; society must have been already far advanced; 
and yet, on the other hand, there seems to have been an 
absolute necessity for speech, previous to the formation of 
society. For by what bond could any multitude of men he 
kept together, or be made to join in the prosecution of any 
common interest, until, by the assistance of speech, they 
could communicate their wants and intentions to one another ? 
So that, either how society could subsist previous to lan¬ 
guage, or how words could rise into a language, previous 
to the formation of society, seem to he points attended with 
equal difficulty. And when we consider farther, that curious 
analogy which prevails in the construction of almost all 
languages, and that deep and subtle logic on which they are 
founded, difficulties increase so much upon us, on all hands, 
that there seems to be no small reason for referring the origin 
of all languages to divine teaching, or inspiration. But sup¬ 
posing language to have had a divine origin, we cannot, 
however, suppose, that a perfect system of it was at once 
given t-o man. It is much more natural to think, that God 
taught our first parents such language only, as suited their 
present occasions ; leaving them, as he did in other things, 
to enlarge and improve it as their future necessities should 


In this situation, what would be impossible; and what supposition fol¬ 
lows 'l In order for any language to fix and extend itself, what must have 
been done; and yet, on the other hand, what is remarked; and why ? 
What points, consequently, seem to be attended with equal difficulty ? 
What farther consideration induces us to refer the origin of all languages 
to divine inspiration 1 But, allowing that language had a divine origin, 
what can we not suppose ; and what is much more natural 7 



46 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. 6. 

require. Consequently, those first rudiments of speech 
must have been poor and narrow ; and we are at full liberty 
to inquire in what manner, and by what steps, language 
advanced to the state in which we now find it. 

If we should suppose a period before any words were 
invented or known, it is clear that men could have no other 
method of communicating, to others, what they felt, than by 
the cries of passion, accompanied with such motions and 
gestures as were farther expressive of passion. These, 
indeed, are the only signs which nature teaches all men, 
and which are understood by all. One who saw another 
going into some place where he himself had been frightened, 
or exposed to danger, and who sought to warn his neighbor 
of the danger, could contrive no other method of doing so 
than by uttering those crie^, and making those gestures 
which are the signs of fear: just as two men, at this day 
would endeavor to make themselves be understood by each 
other, who should be thrown together'on a desolate island, 
ignorant of each other’s language. Those exclamations, 
therefore, called by grammarians, interjections, uttered in a 
strong and passionate manner, were, beyond doubt, the first 
elements or beginnings of speech. 

When more enlarged communications became necessary, 
and names began to be assigned to objects, in what manner 
can we suppose men to have proceeded in this application of 
names, or invention of words ? Doubtless, by imitating, as 
much as they could, the nature of the object which they 
named, by the sound of the name which they gave to it. As 
a painter, who would represent grass, must employ green 
color; so in the infancy of language, one giving a name to 
any thing harsh or boisterous, would, of course, employ a 
harsh or boisterous sound. He could not do otherwise, if 
he meant to excite in the hearer the idea of that thing which 
he sought to name. To suppose words invented, or names 
given to things, in a manner purely arbitrary, is to suppose 


What must, consequently, have been the state of those first rudiments 
of speech; and what follows 7 If we suppose a period before words 
were invented, what method only, would men have for communicating 
what they felt to others; and why 7 How is this remark illustrated 7 
What instance is given; and what, consequently, were the first elements 
of speech 7 When more enlarged communications became necessary, in 
what manner did men proceed in their application of names ; and how is 
this illustrated 7 Under what circumstances could he not do otherwise'? 
What would be to suppose an effect without a cause; and for what reason. 7 






Lect. 6.] OF LANGUAGE. 47 

an effect without a cause. There must have always been 
some motive that led to the assigning of one name rather 
than another ; and we can conceive no motive which would 
more generally operate upon men in their first efforts towards 
language, than a desire to paint by speech, the objects which 
they named, in a manner more or less complete, according 
as it was in the power of the human voice to effect this 
imitation. 

Wherever objects were to be named, in which sound, 
noise, or motion, were concerned, the imitation by words 
was abundantly obvious. Nothing was more natural, than 
to imitate, by the sound of the voice, the quality of the sound 
or noise which any external object made; and to form its 
name accordingly. Thus, in all languages, we find a mul¬ 
titude of words that are evidently constructed upon this prin¬ 
ciple. A certain bird is termed the cuckoo, from the sound 
which it emits. When one sort of wind is said to whistle , 
and another to roar ; when a serpent is said to hiss, a fly to 
buz, and falling timber to crash; when a stream is said to 
flow, and hail to rattle ; the resemblance between the word 
and the thing signified, is plainly discernable. But in the 
names of objects which address the sight only, where neither 
noise nor motion is concerned, and still more in the terms 
appropriated to moral ideas, 'this analogy appears to fail. 
Yet many learned men have been of opinion, that though in 
such cases it becomes more obscure, it is not altogether lost; 
but that throughout the radical words of all languages, there 
may be traced some correspondence with the object signified. 
With regard to moral and intellectual ideas, they remark, 
that in every language, the terms significant of them, are 
derived from the names of sensible objects to which they 
are conceived to be analogous ; and with regard to sensible 
objects pertaining merely to sight, they remark, that their 
most distinguishing qualities have certain radical sounds 
appropriated to the expression of them, in a great variety 
of languages. 

This principle, however, of a natural relation between 


Where was the imitation by words abundantly obvious; and thus, in all 
languages, what do we find 'l What instances are mentioned, illustrative 
of this remark 1 But where does this analogy appear to fail; yet many 
learned men have been of what opinion 'l With regard to moral and 
intellectual ideas, and with regard to sensible objects pertaining merely to 
sight, what do they remark 1 When only can this principle be applied to 
language 'l 



48 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. 0. 

words and objects, can only be applied .to language in its 
most simple and primitive state. Though in every tongue 
some remains of it can be traced, it were utterly vain to 
search for it throughout the whole construction of any modern 
language. As the multitude of terms increase in every 
nation, and the immense field of language is filled up, 
words, by a thousand fanciful and irregular methods of de¬ 
rivation and composition, deviate widely from the primitive 
character of their roots, and lose all resemblance in sound 
to the thing signified. This is the present state of language. 
Words, as we now employ them, taken in the general, may 
be considered as symbols, not as imitations ; as arbitrary or 
instituted, not natural signs of ideas. But there can be no 
doubt, that language, the nearer we remount to its rise 
among men, will be found to partake more of a natural 
expression. 

A second character of language, in its early state, is 
drawn from the manner in which words were at first pro¬ 
nounced. Interjections, it has been shown, or passionate 
exclamations, were the first elements of speech. Men 
labored to communicate their feelings to one another, by 
those expressive cries and gestures which nature taught 
them. After words, or names of objects, began to be intro¬ 
duced, this mode of speaking by natural signs, could not be 
all at once disused. For language, in its infancy must have 
been extremely barren; and there doubtless was a period 
among all rude nations, when conversation was carried on by 
a very few words, intermixed with many exclamations and 
earnest gestures. The small stock of words which men as 
yet possessed, rendered these helps absolutely necessary 
for explaining their conceptions ; and rude uncultivated men, 
not having always at hand even the few words which they 
knew, would naturally labor to make themselves understood, 
by varying their tones of voice, and accompanying their 
tones with the most significant gesticulations they could 
make. 


Though in every tongue some remains of it can be traced, yet what were 
utterly vain; and why 1 As this is the present state of language, how 
may words, as we now employ them, be considered ; but of what can there 
be no doubt 1 Whence is a second character of language, in its early 
state, drawn ? What were the first elements of speech ; and why were 
they 1 After words began to be introduced, why could not this mode of 
speaking be, at once, disused 1 What rendered these helps absolutely 
uecessary ; and what follows 1 



Lect. 6.] OF LANGUAGE 49 

To this manner of speaking-, necessity first gave rise. 
But we must observe, that after this necessity had, in a 
great measure, ceased, by language becoming, in process of 
time, more extensive and copious, the ancient manner of 
speech still subsisted among many nations; and what had 
arisen from necessity, continued to he used for ornament. 
In the Greek and Roman languages, a musical and gesticu¬ 
lating pronunciation was retained in' a very high degree. 
Without having attended to this, we shall be at a loss to 
understand several passages of the classics, which relate to 
the public speaking and theatrical entertainments of the 
ancients. Our modern pronunciation would have appeared 
to them a lifeless monotony. The declamation of their 
orators, and the pronunciation of their actors upon the stage, 
approached to the nature of recitative in music; was capable 
of being marked in notes, and supported with instruments; 
as several learned men have fully proved. 

The case was parallel with regard to gesture; for strong- 
tones and animated gestures, we may observe, always go 
together. Action is treated of by all the ancient critics, as 
the chief quality in every public speaker. The action both, 
of the orators and players in Greece and Rome, was far 
more vehement than what we are accustomed to now. To 
us, Roscius would have seemed a madman. Gesture was 
of such consequence upon the ancient stage, that on some 
occasions, the speaking and the acting part were divided; 
which, according to our ideas, would form a strange exhi¬ 
bition : one player spoke the words in the proper tones, 
while another performed the corresponding motions and 
gestures. We learn from Cicero, that it was a contest 
between him and Roscius, whether he could express a sen¬ 
timent in a greater variety of phrases, or Roscius in a 
greater variety of intelligible significant gestures. At last, 
gesture engrossed the stage wholly ; for, under the reigns of 


To this manner of speaking what gave rise ; yet what must be observed 'l 
Of it in the Greek and Roman languages what is remarked; and without 
having attended to this, to understand what shall we be at a loss 'l How 
would our modern pronunciation have appeared to them; and of the 
declamation of their orators, and the pronunciation of their actors, what 
is observed 1 Why was the case parallel with regard to gesture; and how 
is action treated of by all the ancient critics 1 Of the action of the players 
and orators of Greece and Rome, what is remarked; and how would 
Roscius have seemed to us 'l From the importance of gesture upon the 
ancient stage, what practice prevailed; and how was it conducted 1 On 
this subject, what do we learn from Cicero 1 

5 



50 RISE AND PROGRESS (Lect. 0, 

Augustus and Tiberius, the favorite entertainment of the 
public was the pantomime, which was carried on entirely by 
mute gesticulation. The people were moved, and wept at 
it as much as at tragedies; and the passion for it became 
so strong, that laws were made, for restraining the senators 
from studying the pantomime art. Now, though in decla¬ 
mations and theatrical exhibitions, both tone and gesture 
were, doubtless, carried much farther than in common dis¬ 
course ; yet public speaking of any kind, must, in every 
country, bear some proportion to the. manner which is used 
in conversation; and such public entertainments as have 
now been mentioned, could never have been relished by a 
nation, whose tones and gestures, in discpurse, were as 
languid as ours. 

We are apt, upon a superficial view, to imagine, that those 
modes of expression which are called figures of speech, are 
among the chief refinements of speech, not invented till after 
language had advanced to its later periods, and mankind 
were brought into a polished state; and that, then, they 
were devised by orators and rhetoricians : but the truth is 
directly the contrary. Mankind never employed so many 
figures of speech, as when they had hardly any words for 
expressing their meaning. 

For, first, the want of proper names for every object, obliged 
them to use one name for many ; and, of course, to express 
themselves by comparisons, metaphors, allusions, and all 
those substituted forms of speech which render language 
figurative. Next, as the objects with which they were most 
conversant, were the sensible material objects around them, 
names would be given to those objects long oefore words 
were invented for signifying the dispositions of the mind, or 
any sort of moral and intellectual ideas. Hence, the early 
language of men being entirely made up of words descrip¬ 
tive of sensible objects, it necessarily became'’ extremely 
metaphorical. For, to signify any desire or passion, or any 
act or feeling of the mind, they had no precise expression 


At last, to what extent did it engross the stage; from what does this 
appear; and how were the people affected by it ? What remark follows, 
yet, to what must public speaking, in every country, bear some resem¬ 
blance; and by whom could not such public entertainments, as have now 
been mentioned, be relished '1 Of those modes of expression called figures 
of speech, what are we apt to imagine ; but how does it appear that the 
truth is directly the contrary 'l What are the two reasons for this 1 Hence, 
of the early languages of men what is observed; and why was this the case * 



Lect.6.] OF LANGUAGE. 51 

which was appropriated to that purpose, but were under the 
necessity of painting the passion or emotion which they felt, 
by allusion to those sensible objects which had most relation 
to it, and which could render it, in some degree, visible to 
others. 

But it was not necessity alone that gave rise to this figured 
style. In the infancy of all societies, men are much under 
the dominion of imagination and passion. They live scat¬ 
tered and dispersed; they are unacquainted with the course 
of things ; they are every day meeting with new and strange 
objects. Fear and surprise, wonder and astonishment, are 
their most frequent passions. Their language will neces¬ 
sarily be affected by this character of their minds. They 
will be disposed to paint every thing in the strongest and 
most glowing colors. Even the manner in which the first 
tribes of men uttered their words, would have considerable 
influence on their style. Wherever strong exclamations, 
tones, and gestures, are connected with conversation, the 
imagination is always more exercised; a greater effort ot 
fancy and passion is excited. Consequently, the fancy, kept 
awake, and rendered more sprightly by this mode of utter¬ 
ance, operates upon style, and renders it more lively. 

These reasonings are confirmed by undoubted facts. The 
style of all the most early languages, among nations who 
are in the first and rude periods of society, is found, without 
exception, to be full of figures—hyperbolical and picturesque 
in a high degree. We have a striking instance of this in 
the American Janguages, which are known, by the most 
authentic accounts, to be figurative to excess. Another 
remarkable instance, is the style of the Old Testament, 
which is carried on by constant allusions to sensible objects. 

But as language, in its progress, began to grow more 
copious, it gradually lost that figurative style, which was its 
original character. The vehement manner of speaking by 
tones and gestures, became less universal. In place of poets, 
philosophers became the instructers of men ; and in their 
reasonings on all subjects, introduced that plain and simple 
style of composition, which we now call prose. The ancient 


How does it appear that it was not necessity alone that gave rise to this 
figured style ? Why would the manner in which men pronounced their 
words have considerable influence upon their style'! How do these 
reasonings appear to be confirmed by facts ; and where have we instances ot 
this? But as language, in its progress, began to grow more copious, what 
consequences followed ? 



62 RISE AND PROGRESS j Le<;t. 6. 

metaphorical and poetical dress of language, a as no w ; aic 
aside from the intercourse of men, and reserved for thoei 
occasions only, on which ornament was professedly studieo 


ANALYSIS. 


Language. 

A. Its present state. 

B. Its origin. 

C. The earliest method of com¬ 

municating thoughts. 

D. The principle upon which 

language was formed. 

a. When this principle is ob¬ 

vious. 

b. W<* en it seems to fail. 


2. Pronunciation 

A. Inflections. 

B. Gestures. 

3. The charades >i language 

changed. 

4. The style of early languages. 

A. The employment of figures, 
a. Confirmation of these rea* 

sonings. 

B. The origin of prose 






Lect. 7.] 


OF LANGUAGE. 


53 


LECTURE VII. 

RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE, AND 
OF WRITING. 

W hen we attend to the order in which words are arranged 
in a sentence, we find a very remarkable difference between 
the ancient and modem tongues. The consideration of this 
will serve to unfold farther the genius of language, and to 
show the causes of those alterations which it has undergone 
in the progress of society. 

In order to conceive, distinctly, the nature of this alter¬ 
ation, we must go hack, as before, to the earliest period of 
language. Let us figure to ourselves a savage, who beholds 
some object, such as fruit, which raises his desire, and who 
requests another to give it to him. Supposing him to be 
unacquainted with words, he would, in that case, labor to 
make himself be understood, by pointing earnestly at the 
object which he desired, and uttering, at the same time, a 
passionate cry. Supposing him to have acquired words, the 
first word which he uttered would, of course, be the name of 
that object. He would not express himself according to our 
English order of construction, “ give me fruitbut accord¬ 
ing to the Latin order, “ fruit give mefor this plain 
reason, that his attention was wholly directed towards fruit, 
the desired object. This was the exciting idea; the object 
which moved him to speak; and, of course, would be the 
first named. Such an arrangement is precisely putting into 
words the gesture which nature taught the savage to make, 
before he was acquainted with words ; and, therefore, it may 
be depended upon as certain, that he would fall most readily 
into this arrangement. Hence, we might conclude, a priori , 
that this would be the order in which words were most com¬ 
monly arranged at the beginnings of language; and, accord- 


When we attend to the order in which words are arranged in a sentence, 
what do we perceive: and what will the consideration of this, do 1 How 
shall we conceive distinctly the nature of this alteration ; and what must 
we figure to ourselves ? If unacquainted with words, how would he labor 
to make himself understood 1 Suppose him to have acquired words, what 
course would he pursue; and why 1 Of such an arrangement, what is 
remarked ; and, therefore, what follows 1 Hence, what might we concl ide j 
and in what tongues were words arranged in this order 1 

5 * 



54 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. 7 

ingly, we find, in fact, that in this order, words are arranged 
in most of the ancient tongues ; as in the Greek and Latin 
and it is said, also, in the Russian, the Sclavonic, the Gaelic, 
and several of the American tongues. 

All the modern languages of Europe have adopted a 
different arrangement from the ancient. In their prose com¬ 
positions, very little variety is admitted in the collocation of 
words ; they are chiefly fixed to one order, which may be 
called the order of the understanding. They place first in 
the sentence, the person, or thing, which speaks or acts ; 
next, its action ; and lastly, the object of its action. So that 
the ideas are made to succeed to one another, not according 
to the degree of importance which the several objects carry 
in the imagination, but according to the order of nature and 
of time. 

An English writer, paying a compliment to a great man, 
would say thus: “ It is impossible for me to pass over in 
silence such remarkable mildness, such singular and un¬ 
heard of clemency, and such unusual moderation in the 
exercise of supreme power.” Here we have first presented 
to us, the person who speaks ; next, what that person is to 
do, “impossible for him to pass over in silence ;” and, 
lastly, the object which moves him so to do, “ the mildness, 
clemency, and moderation of his patron.” Cicero, from 
whom these words are translated, just reverses this order ; 
beginning with the object, placing that first which was the 
exciting idea in the speaker’s mind, and ending with the- 
speaker and his action. “ Tantam mansuetudinem, tarn 
inusitatem inauditamque clementiam, tantumque in summa 
potestate rerum omnium modum, tacitus nullo modo praete- 
rire possum.” Here, it must be observed, that the Latin or¬ 
der is more animated ; the English more clear and distinct. 

In poetry, where we are supposed to rise above the 
ordinary style, and to speak the language of fancy and pas¬ 
sion, our arrangement is not altogether so limited; but 
greater liberty is allowed for transposition and inversion. 
Even there, however, that liberty is confined within narrow 


Of the course pursued by all the modern languages of Europe, in their 
prose compositions, what is observed; and what is this order called ? How 
do they proceed ; so that what follows 1 An English writer, paying a com¬ 
pliment to a great man, would say what; and here, what have we presented 
to us 1 What order does'Cicero pursue ; and here what must be observed 1 
Where is greater liberty allowed for transposition and inversion; but 
there, of that liberty, what is observed h 



Lect. 7.] OF WRITING. 55 

bounds, in comparison of tne ancient languages. In this 
respect, the different modern tongues vary from each other. 
The Italian retains the most of the ancient transpositive 
character ; the English, the next; and the French, the least 
of all. 

It is proper, however, to observe, that there is one circum¬ 
stance in the structure of all the modern tongues, which, of 
necessity, limits their arrangement, in a great measure, to 
one fixed and determined train. We have disused those 
differences of termination, which, in the Greek and Latin, 
distinguished the several cases of nouns and tenses of verbs ; 
and which, thereby, pointed out the mutual relation of the 
several words in a sentence to one another, though the 
related words were disjoined, and placed in different parts 
of the sentence. One obvious effect of this is, that we have 
now, for the most part, no way left us to show the close 
relation of any two words to each other in meaning, but by 
placing them close to one another in the period. It was by 
means of the contrivance of varying the termination of 
nouns and verbs, and thereby pointing out the concordance 
and the government of the words in a sentence, that the 
ancients enjoyed so much liberty of transposition, and could 
marshal and arrange their words in any way that gratified 
the imagination, or pleased the ear. But when language 
came to be modelled by the northern nations, who overran 
the empire, they dropped the cases of nouns, and the different 
terminations of verbs, with the more ease, because they 
placed no great value upon the advantages arising from such 
a structure of language. They were attentive only to clear¬ 
ness, and copiousness of expression. 

Having finished the account of the progress of speech, 
the account of the progress of writing next demands oui 
notice. 

Writing is evidently an improvement upon speech, and 
therefore must have been posterior to it in the order of time 


How do different modern languages vary in this respect ? What cir¬ 
cumstance, however, must we observe, necessarily limits the structure of 
all the modern tongues, to one fixed and determined train; and what is 
one obvious effect of this ? What advantage did the ancients derive from 
varying the terminations of nounsand verbs 1 But when, and why, were 
these cases of nouns and terminations of verbs dropped ; and to what only, 
were they attentive ? Having finished the account of the progress of 
speech, what next demands our attention ? Upon what is writing evi¬ 
dently an improvement; and, therefore, what follows? 




56 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. 7 

At first, men thought of nothing more than communicating 
their thoughts to one an other, when present, by means of 
words, or sounds which they uttered. Afterwards they 
devised this farther method of mutual communication with 
each other, when absent, by means of characters presented 
to the eye, which we call writing. 

Written characters are of two sorts. They are either 
signs for things, or signs for words. Of the former sort, 
signs of things, are the pictures, hieroglyphics, and symbols, 
employed by the ancient nations ; of the latter sort, signs for 
words, are the alphabetical characters now employed by ail 
Europeans. 

Pictures were, doubtless, the first attempt towards writing. 
Imitation is so natural to man, that, in all ages, and among 
all nations, some methods have obtained, of copying or 
tracing the likeness of sensible objects. Those methods 
would soon be employed by men for giving some imperfect 
information to others, at a distance, of what had happened; 
or for preserving the memory of facts which they sought to 
record. Thus, to signify that one man had killed another, 
they drew the figure of one man stretched upon the earth, 
and of another standing by him with a deadly weapon in his 
hand. We find, in fact, that when America was first dis¬ 
covered, this was the only sort of writing known in the 
kingdom of Mexico.* It was, however, a very imperfect 
method of recording facts ; since, by pictures, external 
events only could be delineated. 

To supply,, in some degree, this defect, there arose, in 
process of time, the invention of hieroglyphical characters, 
which may be considered as the second stage of the art of 
writing. Hieroglyphics consist in certain symbols, which 
are made to represent visible objects, on account of an 


* Dr. Robertson, speaking of Mexican figures, says, “ They represent 
things , not words. They exhibit images to the eye, not ideas to the un¬ 
derstanding.” Hist, of America, Book 7, p. 160.—Albany ed., 1822. 


At'first, of what only did men think; and what did they afterwards 
devise'l Written characters are of what two sorts; and what are ex¬ 
amples of each ? What were the first attempts towards writing; and 
why was this the easel Thus, how would they signify that one man had 
killed another 1 Where do we find this to have been the only sort of w riting 
known; and what is observed of it 1 In process of time, what invention 
arose to supply, in some degree, this defect, and how may it be considered 1 
In what do hieroglyphics consist; and what examples are given? 




Lect. 7.] OF WRITING. 67 

analogy, or resemblance, which such symbols were supposed 
to bear to the objects themselves. Thus, an eye, was the 
hieroglyphical symbol of knowledge; a circle, which has 
neither beginning nor end, of eternity. Hieroglyphics, 
therefore, were a more refined and extensive species of 
painting. Pictures delineated the resemblance of external 
visible objects; hieroglyphics painted invisible objects, by 
analogies taken from the external world. 

Among the Mexicans, were found some traces of hiero 
glyphical characters, intermixed with their historical pic¬ 
tures. But Egypt was the country where this sort of writing 
was most studied, and brought into a regular art. In these 
characters all the boasted wisdom of their priests was con¬ 
veyed. According to the properties which they ascribe to 
animals, or the qualities with which they suppose natural 
objects to be endowed, they pitched upon them to be the em¬ 
blems of moral objects ; and employed them in their writings 
for that end. Thus, ingratitude was denominated by 
viper ; imprudence, by a fly; wisdom, by an ant; victory, 
by a hawk; and a dutiful child, by a stork. But, as many 
of those properties of objects which they assumed for the 
foundation of their hieroglyphics, were merely imaginary, 
and the allusions drawn from them forced and ambiguous, 
this sort of writing was extremely enigmatical, and confused 
in the highest degree ; and must have been a very imperfect 
vehicle of knowledge of any kind. 

From hieroglyphics mankind gradually advanced to sim¬ 
ple arbitrary marks, which stood for objects, though without 
any resemblance or analogy to the object signified. Of this 
nature was the method of writing practised among the Peru¬ 
vians. They used small cords of different colors; and by 
knots upon these, of different sizes, and variously arranged, 
they contrived signs for giving information, and communi¬ 
cating their thoughts to one another. The Chinese, to this 
day, use written characters of this nature. They have no 

How do hieroglyphics and pictures compare with each other 1 Where 
do we find some° traces of hieroglyphical characters; and where were they 
brought to a regular art 'l In these characters, all of whose knowledge was 
conveyed ; and what course did they pursue 'l Wdiat illustrative exam¬ 
ples are given 'l But why was this sort of writing enigmatical and con¬ 
fused ; and what must it, consequently, have been '? From hieroglyphics, 
to what did mankind gradually advance ; and what method of writing was 
of this nature 1 How is this remark illustrated 'i Who, to this day, use 
written characters of this nature; and having no alphabet of letters, what 
course do they pursue 'l 





58 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. . 

alphabet of letters, or simple sounds, which compose their 
words; but every single character which they use in 
writing, is significant of an idea; it is a mark which stands 
for some one thing or object. The number of these charac¬ 
ters must, consequently, be immense. It must correspond 
to the whole number of objects, or ideas, which they have 
occasion to express; that is, to the whole number of words 
which they employ in speech. They are said, indeed, to 
amount to seventy thousand. To become perfectly ac¬ 
quainted with them is the business of a whole life ; which 
subjects learning, among them, to infinite disadvantage ; and 
must have greatly retarded the progress of all science. 

It is evident that the Chinese characters, are, like hiero¬ 
glyphics, independent of language ; and are signs of things, 
and not of words. For we are told that the Japanese, the 
Tonquinese, and the Coroeans, who speak different lan¬ 
guages from each other, and from the inhabitants of China, 
use, however, the same written characters with them, and 
thus correspond intelligibly with one another in writing, 
though ignorant of the language spoken in their respective 
countries. Our arithmetical figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, &c. are an 
example of this sort of writing. They have no dependence 
on words; each figure represents the number for which it 
stands; and, consequently, on being presented to the eye, is 
equally understood by all the nations who have agreed in 
the use of these figures. 

The first step to remedy the imperfection, the ambiguity, 
and the tediousness of each of these methods of communi¬ 
cation which have been mentioned, was the invention of an 
alphabet of syllables; which, probably, preceded the in¬ 
vention of an alphabet of letters, among some of the ancient 
nations; and which is said to be retained to this day in 
^Ethiopia, and some countries of India. By fixing upon a 
particular mark, or character, for every syllable in the lan- 


To what must the number of these characters, consequently, correspond; 
and how many of them are they said to have 1 Of the difficulty of be¬ 
coming acquainted with them, what is remarked; to what does this subject 
learning; and what nfust have been the consequence 'l What evidence 
have we that the Chinese characters are, like hieroglyphics, independent 
ot language 7 What example have we of this sort of writing; of them what 
is remarked, and what, consequently, follows 'l What was the first step to 
remedy the imperfection, &c., of each of these methods of communication; 
what did it, probably precede; and where is it said to be still retained 'l 
How was the number of characters necessary to be used in writing, much 
reduced ; but, still, of them what is remarked 1 



Lect. 7.] OF WRITING. 59 

guage, the number of characters necessary to he used in 
writing, was reduced within a much smaller compass than 
the number of words in the language. Still, however, the 
number of characters was great; and must have continued 
to render both reading and writing very laborious arts. Till, 
at last, some happy genius arose, and tracing the sounds, 
made by the human voice, to their most simple elements, 
reduced them to a very few vowels and consonants; and by 
affixing to each of these, the signs which we now call letters, 
taught men how, by their combinations, to put in writing ah 
the different words, or combinations of sound, which they 
employed in speech. 

To whom we are indebted for this sublime and refined 
discovery, does not appear. Concealed by the darkness of 
remote antiquity, the great inventor is deprived of those 
honors which would still be paid to his memory, by all the 
lovers of knowledge and learning. It appears from the 
books which Moses has written, that among the Jews, and 
probably among the Egyptians, letters had been invented 
prior to his age. The universal tradition among the an¬ 
cients is, that they were first imported into Greece by Cad¬ 
mus the Phoenician ; who, according to Sir Isaac Newton’s 
system of chronology, was cotemporary with king David. 
As the Phoenicians are not known to have been the inventors 
of any art or science, the most probable and natural account 
of the origin of alphabetical characters is, that they took their 
rise in Egypt, the first civilized kingdom of which we have 
any authentic accounts, and the great source of arts and 
polity among the ancients. In that country, the favorite 
study of hieroglyphical characters, had directed much atten¬ 
tion to the art of writing. Their hieroglyphics are known 
to have been intermixed with abbreviated symbols, and arbi¬ 
trary marks ; whence, at last, they caught the idea of con¬ 
triving marks, not for things merely, but for sounds. Accord¬ 
ingly, Plato expressly attributes the invention of letters to 


At last, by some happy genius, what was effected; and in effecting this, 
what course did he pursue 7 Of the inventor of this sublime and refined 
discovery, what is remarked ; and what appears from the books of Moses 7 
What is the universal tradition among the ancients; and with whom was 
he cotemporary 1 As the Phoenicians are not known to have been the in¬ 
ventors of any art or science, what inference follows 7 What remarks 
follow to justify this inference 7 To whom does Plato expressly attribute 
the invention of them; and who is he supposed to have been 7 




60 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. 7. 

Theuth, the Egyptian, who is supposed to have been the 
Hermes, or Mercury, of the Greeks. 

The alphabet which Cadmus brought into Greece was 
imperfect, and is said to have contained only sixteen letters. 
The rest were afterwards added, according as signs for 
proper sounds were found to be wanting. It is curious to 
observe, that the letters which we use at this day, can be 
traced back to this very alphabet of Cadmus. The Roman 
alphabet, which obtains with us, is so plainly formed on 
the Greek, and the Greek characters have so remarkable a 
conformity with the Hebrew and the Phoenician, as amounts 
to a demonstration, that they were all derived originally from 
the same source. 

The ancient order of writing was from the right hand- to 
the left. This manner of writing obtained among the 
Assyrians, Phoenicians, Arabians, and Hebrews; and, from 
some very old inscriptions, appears to have obtained, also, 
among the Greeks. Afterwards, the Greeks adopted a new 
method, writing their lines alternately from the right to the 
left, and from the left to the right. The inscription on the 
famous Sigaean monument is a specimen of this mode, of 
writing, which continued down to the days of Solon, the 
celebrated legislator of Athens. At length, the motion from 
the left hand to the right being found more natural and con¬ 
venient, this order of writing was adopted throughout all the 
nations of Europe. 

Writing was, for a long time, a kind of engraving. 
Pillars, and tables of stone, were first employed for this pur¬ 
pose, and afterwards plates of the softer metals, such as 
lead. In proportion as writing became more common, lighter 
and more portable substances were employed. The leaves, 
and the bark of certain trees, were used in some countries : 
and in others, tablets of wood, covered with a thin coat of 
soft wax, on which the impression was made with a stylus of 
iron. Parchment, made of the hides of animals, was an 


How many letters did the alphabet of Cadmus contain ; and how were 
the rest added 'l What is it curious to observe ; and how is this remark 
illustrated % What was the ancient order of writing; and among whom 
did it obtain 'l What method succeeded; what is a specimen of it, and 
how long did it continue 1 At length, what order was adopted ; and why 1 
Writing was, for a long time, what; what were, at first, employed for this 
purpose; and what, afterwards'? As writing became more common, what 
followed; and what illustrations are given 'l Of parchment, and of the 
invention of pnper, what is observed 1 



Lect. 8.] OF WRITING. 61 

invention of later times. Paper, on which we at present 
write, was not invented till the fourteenth century. 

Having thus given some account of the two great arts, 
speech and writing, we shall close this subject with a few 
remarks on their comparative advantages. The advantages 
of writing over speech are, that it is a more extensive and 
more permanent method of communication. More extensive, 
as it is not confined within the narrow circle of those who 
hear us ; but, by means of written characters, we can send 
our thoughts to the most distant regions of the earth : and 
more permanent, as it gives us the means of recording our 
sentiments for futurity, and of perfecting the instructive 
memory of past transactions. But, though these are great 
advantages of written language, yet we must not forget to 
observe, that spoken language has a great superiority over 
written, in point of energy and force. The voice of the 
living speaker makes a much stronger impression on the 
mind than can be made by the perusal of any writing. The 
tones of the voice, the looks and gestures, which accompany 
discourse, render it, when well arranged, infinitely more 
clear, and more expressive, than the most accurate writing : 
for tones, looks, and gestures, are natural interpreters of the 
sentiments of the mind. Hence, though writing may answer 
the purposes of instruction, yet all the great and high efforts 
of eloquence must be made by means of speech. 


Having thus given some account of speech and writing, with what is 
this subject closed 'l What are the advantages of writing over speech; 
and how is this illustrated 'l What advantages has speech over writing; 
and what illustration follows % 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Arrangement. 

A. Origin of arrangement. 

B. Arrangement of ancient lan¬ 

guages. 

C. Arrangement of modern lan¬ 

guages. 

2. Writing. 

A. signs of things. 


a. Pictures. 

b. Hieroglyphics. 

c. Arbitrary marks. 

B. Signs for words. 

a. Alphabet of syllables. 

b. Alphabetical characters. 

3. Comparative advantages of 

speech and writing. 


6 







LECTURE VIII. 

STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 


The structure of language is extremely artificial; and 
there are few sciences in which a deeper and more refined 
logic is employed, than in grammar. Superficial thinkers 
are apt to slight it, from an impression that it belongs to 
those rudiments of knowledge, which were inculcated upon 
us in our earliest youth. But what was then inculcated 
before we could comprehend its principles, must abundantly 
repay our study in maturer years ; and to the ignorance of it, 
must be attributed many of those fundamental defects which 
appear in writing. 

It is not proposed, at present, to give any system, either 
of grammar in general, or of English grammar in particular. 
A minute discussion of the niceties of language would 
carry us too far from other objects, which demand our atten¬ 
tion in this work. But we propose to give a general view 
of the chief principles relating to this subject; and then to 
make some more particular remarks on the genius of the 
English language. 

The essential parts of speech are the same in all lan¬ 
guages. There must always be some words which denote 
the names of objects, or mark the subject of discourse ; other 
words, which denote the qualities of those objects, and ex¬ 
press what we affirm concerning them ; and other words, 
which point out their connections, and relations. Hence, 
substantives, pronouns, adjectives, verbs, prepositions, and 
conjunctions, must necessarily be found in all languages. 
The common grammatical division of speech into eight 
parts ; nouns, pronouns, verbs, participles, adverbs, prepo¬ 
sitions, interjections, and conjunctions, is not very logical, 
as might be easily shown ; as it comprehends, under the 


Of the structure of language what is observed'? From what impression 
are superficial thinkers apt to slight it; but of what was then inculcated, 
what is remarked 'l Why is it not proposed, at present, to give any system 
of general or particular grammar; but what is to be given ? From what 
does it appear that the essential parts of speech are the same in all lan¬ 
guages ; and hence, what follows % What is the common grammatical 
division; what is observed of it, and why 'i 



Lect. 8] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 63 

general term of nouns, both substantives and adjectives, 
which are parts of speech generically and essentially 
distinct; while it makes a separate part of speech of par¬ 
ticiples, which are no other than verbal adjectives. Yet, as 
these are the terms to which our ears have been most fami¬ 
liarized, and, as an exact logical division is of no great con¬ 
sequence to our present purpose, it will be better to make use 
of these known terms than any other. 

Substantive nouns are the foundation of all grammar, and 
may be considered as the most ancient part of speech. For 
when men had got beyond simple interjections, or exclama 
tions of passion, and had begun to communicate their 
ideas to each other, they would be obliged to assign names 
to the objects by which they were surrounded. And here, 
at the coinmencement, something curious occurs. The 
individual objects which surround us are infinite in number. 
A savage, wherever he looked, beheld forests and trees. To 
give separate names to every one of those trees, would have 
been an endless and impracticable undertaking. Hrs firs., 
object was to give a name to that particular tree, whose fruit 
relieved his hunger, or whose shade protected him from the 
sun. But observing, that though other trees were dis¬ 
tinguished from this by peculiar qualities of size or appear¬ 
ance, yet that they also resembled one another in certain 
common qualities, such as springing from a root, and bear¬ 
ing branches and leaves, he formed in his mind some general 
idea of their common qualities, and ranging all that 
possessed them under one class of objects, he called that 
whole class a tree. Longer experience taught him to sub¬ 
divide this genus into the several species of oak, pine, ash, 
<fcc. according as his observation extended to the several 
qualities in which these trees agreed or differed. 

Still, however, only general terms of speech were adopted. 
For the oak, the pine, and the ash, were names of whole 
classes of objects ; each of which comprehended an immense 
number of undistinguished individuals. Thus, when the 
terms man, lion, or tree, were employed in conversation, it 
could not be known which man, lion, or tree, was meant. 


Why, then, will it De oetter to use these terms than any others ? What 
are the foundation of all grammar, and why may they be considered the 
most ancient part of speech? Hence, at the commencement, what 
occurs ; and how is this fully illustrated ? What did longer experience 
teach him? Still, however, what only were adopted; why, and what 
illustration follows ? 





64 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [Lect. 8. 

among the multitude comprehended under one name. Hence, 
arose a very useful and curious contrivance, for determining 
the individual object intended, hy means of that part of 
speech called the article. The force of the article consists 
in pointing or singling out from the common mass, the indi¬ 
vidual of which we mean to speak. In English, we have 
two articles, a and the; a is more general; the , more 
definite. A is much the same with one, and marks only any 
one individual of a species ; as, a lion, a king. The , which 
possesses more properly the force of the article, ascertains 
some known or determined individual of the species ; as, 
the lion, the king. The Greeks have but one article, which 
answers to our definite article the. They supply the place 
of our article a by the absence of their article. The Latins 
have no article, but supply its place with the pronouns, hie, 
ille, iste. This, however, seems to he a defect in their lan¬ 
guage, since articles, certainly, contribute much to accuracy 
and precision. 

To illustrate this remark, we may observe the different 
imports of the following expressions, depending wholly on 
the different employment of the articles : “ The son of a 
king—the son of the king—a son of the king’s.” Each of 
these three phrases has an entirely different meaning, which 
is too obvious to be misunderstood. But in Latin, “ filius 
regis,” is wholly undetermined ; and to explain in which of 
these three senses it is to be understood, for it may bear any 
of them, a circumlocution of several words must be used. 
In the same manner, “ are you a king ?” “ are you the 
king ?” are questions of quite separate import. “ Thou art 
a man,” is a very general and harmless position; but “ thou 
art the man,” is an assertion, capable of.striking terror 
and remorse into the heart. 

Besides this quality of being distinguished by the article, 


Hence, arose what contrivance, and in what does its force consist ? In 
English, what articles have we ; and what is observed of them 1 A is 
much the same with what; what does it mark; and what examples are 
given ? What does the ascertain ; and what are the examples '? Of the 
Greeks and the Latin? with respect to the article, what is remarked ; and 
why does this, in the Latin, seem a defect I To illustrate this remark, 
what example is given; and of each of these three phrases, what is ob¬ 
served I Of the phrase ‘ filius regis/ what is remarked ; and, in order to 
understand in what sense it is to be taken, what is necessary I What 
farther illustrations follow ? Besides being distinguished by the article, 
what affections belong to nouns? 




Lect. 8.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 65 

three affections belong to substantive nouns ; number, gen¬ 
der, and case, which require our consideration. 

Number distinguishes them as one, or many of the same 
kind, called the singular and plural; a distinction found in 
all languages, and which must, indeed, have been coeval 
with the very infancy of language ; as there were few things 
which men had more frequent occasion to express, than the 
difference between one and many. In the Hebrew, Greek, 
and some other ancient languages, we find not only a plural, 
but a dual number ; the origin of which may very naturally 
be accounted for, from separate terms of numbering not 
being yet invented, and one, two, and many, being all, or at 
least, the chief numerical distinctions which men, at first, 
had any occasion to use. 

Gender will lead us into a more extensive discussion than 
number. It being founded on the distinction of the two 
sexes, can, with propriety, be applied to the names of living 
creatures only. All other substantive nouns, ought to belong 
to what grammarians call the neuter gender, which is meant 
to*-imply the negation of either sex. Yet, in most lan¬ 
guages, a great number of inanimate objects, have been 
ranked under the like distinctions of masculine and femi¬ 
nine. Thus, in Latin, gladius, a sword, for instance, is 
masculine ; sagitta, an arrow, is feminine ; and this assigna¬ 
tion of sex to inanimate objects, appears, often, to be entirely 
capricious; derived from no other principle than the casual 
structure of the language, which refers to a certain gender, 
words of a certain termination. In the Greek and Latin, 
however, all inanimate objects are not distributed into mas¬ 
culine and feminine; but, many of them are also classed, 
where all of them ought to have been, under the neuter 
gender; as templum , a church ; sedile , a seat. 

In the French and Italian tongues, the neuter gender is 
entirely unknown, and all their names of inanimate objects 
are put upon the same footing with living creatures; and 


Number distinguishes them in what manner; and why must this dis¬ 
tinction have been coeval with the infancy of language'? In what languages 
do we find a dual number; and how may its origin be accounted for 7 On 
what distinction is gender founded; and to what only can it be applied 7 
To what should all other nouns belong; and what is it meant to imply 7 
Yet, in most languages, what is observed ; what instances are mentioned ; 
and from what is this assignation of sex derived 7 Of inanimate objects 
in the Greek and Latin, however, what is remarked; and what follows 7 
In what languages is the neuter gender unknown; and what course do 
they pursue 7 



66 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [Lect. 8 

distributed, without exception, into masculine and feminine. 
But, in the English language, it is remarkable that there 
obtains a peculiarity quite opposite. In the French and 
Italian there is no neuter gender. In the English, when 
we use common discourse, all substantive nouns that are 
not names of living creatures, are neuter without exception. 
He, she , and it, are the marks of the three genders ; and 
we always use it, in speaking of any object where there is 
no sex, or where the sex is not known. And ours, perhaps, 
: s the only language in the known world, except the Chi¬ 
nese, in which the distinction of gender is properly and 
philosophically applied. 

Hence arises a very great and signal advantage of the 
English tongue, which it is of importance to remark. 
Though in common discourse we employ only the proper 
and literal distinction of sexes, yet the genius of the lan¬ 
guage permits us, whenever it will add beauty to our dis¬ 
course, to make the names of inanimate objects, masculine 
or feminine, in a metaphorical sense ; and when we do so, 
we are understood to quit the literal style, and to use one of 
the figures of discourse. For instance ; in speaking of virtue 
in the course of an ordinary conversation, we refer the word 
to no sex or gender : We say, “ virtue is its own reward 
or, “ it is the law of our nature.” But if we choose to rise 
into a higher tone; if we seek to embellish and animate our 
discourse, we give a sex to virtue ; we say, “ she descends 
from heaven “ she alone confers true honor upon man;” 
“ her gifts are the only durable rewards.” By this means 
we have it in our power to vary our style at pleasure ; and 
this is an advantage which, not only every poet, but every 
good writer and speaker in prose, is, on many occasions, 
glad to seize and improve; and it is an advantage peculiar 
to our own tongue. For, in other languages, every word 
has one fixed gender ; masculine, feminine, or neuter, which 
can, upon no occasion, be changed. It deserves, however, 
to be farther remarked, that, when we employ the liberty 


In the English language, however, what peculiarity obtains; and 
how is this fully illustratedOf our language, what is farther re¬ 
marked 'l Hence arises, what great and signal advantage of the English 
tongue I How is this remark illustrated from the sentence, ‘ virtue is its 
own reward ;’ or, 1 it is the law of our nature V By this means what have 
we it in our power to do; and of this advantage what is remarked; and 
why 'l On this subject, however, what deserves to be farther re 
marked I 



Lect.8.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 67 

which our language allows, of ascribing sex to any inani¬ 
mate object, we have not the liberty of making it of what 
gender we please; but are, in general, subject to some rule 
of gender, which the currency of language has fixed to that 
object. The foundation of this rule is supposed to be laid 
in a certain resemblance, or analogy, to the natural distinction 
of the two sexes. Thus, we commonly give the masculine 
gender to those nouns used figuratively, which are conspicu¬ 
ous for the attributes of imparting or communicating; 
which are by nature strong and efficacious, either to good or 
evil; or which have a claim to some eminence, whether 
laudable or not. On the other hand, those are generally 
made feminine, which are conspicuous for the attributes of 
containing, and of bringing forth; which have more of the 
passive in their nature, than of the active ; which are pecu¬ 
liarly beautiful, or amiable ; or which have respect to such 
excesses as are rather feminine than masculine. 

Having discussed gender, we proceed next to another 
peculiarity of substantive nouns, which is their cases. Cases, 
in declension, express the state, or relation, which one object 
bears to another, denoted by some variation made upon the 
name of that object; generally, in the final letters, and by 
some languages, in the initials. All languages, however, 
do not agree in this mode of expression. The Greek and 
Latin use declension ; but in the English, French, and 
Italian, it is not found, or, at most, it exists in a very imper¬ 
fect state. These languages express the relations of objects, 
by means of the words called prepositions, which are the 
names of those relations, prefixed to the name of the object. 
English nouns have no case whatever, except a sort of 
genitive, usually formed by the addition of the letter 5 to 
the noun; as when we say “ Pope’s Dunciad,” meaning 
the Dunciad of Pope. Our personal pronouns have like¬ 
wise a case, which corresponds with the accusative of the 
Latin; I, me ; he , him; who , whom. This, however, is 
but a slight resemblance of that declension which is used in 
the ancient languages. 


Where is the foundation of this rule supposed to be laid; and what 
illustration follows 1 ? Having discussed gender, to what do we next pro¬ 
ceed 1 What do cases express ; and how are they denoted ? How does 
tt appear that all languages do not agree in this mode of expression; and 
how do the latter languages express the relation of objects 1 What case, only, 
have English nouns ; and what illustration is given 7 Of our personal pro¬ 
nouns, likewise, what is remarked; but of this, however, what is observed 'l 




68 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [Lect. 8. 

Whether the moderns have given beauty or utility to lan¬ 
guage, by the abolition of cases, may, perhaps, he doubted. 
They have, however, certainly rendered it more simple, by 
removing that intricacy which arose from the different forms 
of declension, of which the Romans had no less than five; 
and from all the irregularities of these several declensions. 
By obtaining this simplicity, it must be confessed, we have 
filled language with a multitude of those little words called 
prepositions, which are perpetually recurring in every 
sentence, and seem to have encumbered speech by an ad¬ 
dition of terms; and by rendering it more prolix, to have 
enervated its force. The sound of modern languages has 
also become less agreeable to the ear, by being deprived of 
that variety and sweetness, which arose from the length of 
words and the change of terminations, occasioned by the 
cases in Greek and Latin. But, perhaps the greatest dis¬ 
advantage we suffer by the abolition of cases, is the loss of 
that liberty of transposition in the arrangement of words, 
which the ancient languages enjoyed. 

Pronouns are the class of words most nearly related to 
substantive nouns; being, as the name imports, the repre¬ 
sentatives of them. I, thou, he, she , and it, are only an 
abridged way of naming the persons, or objects, with which 
we have immediate intercourse, or to which we are obliged, 
frequently, to refer in discourse: accordingly they are sub¬ 
ject to the same modifications with nouns, of number, gender, 
and case. We may observe, however, that the pronouns of 
the first and second person, I and thou, have had no dis¬ 
tinction of gender in any language; for, since they always 
refer to persons who are present to each other when they 
speak, their sex must be evident, and therefore needs not to 
be distinguished by a masculine or feminine pronoun. But, 
as the third person maybe absent, or unknown, the distinction 
of gender there becomes requisite; and, consequently, in 
English, it has all the three genders belonging to it; he, she. 


What may, perhaps, be doubted; and liow have they rendered it more 
simple'? By obtaining this simplicity, however, what have we done ; and 
of them, what is remarked ? How has the sound of modern languages, 
also, become less agreeable to the ear 'l But what, perhaps, is the greatest 
disadvantage we suffer by the abolition of cases 'l Of pronouns what is 
remarked ; and how is tliis illustrated ? To what are they, consequently, 
subject; but of the first and second person, what may we, at the same time’ 
observe; and why 1 But why does the distinction of gender, in the third 
person, become requisite ; and what, consequently fellows'? 





Uscrr. 8.| STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE 09 

it As to cases, even those languages that do not admit 
hem in substantive nouns, sometimes retain more cf them 
m pronouns, for the sake of the greater readiness in ex¬ 
pressing relations; as pronouns occur so frequently in 
discourse. The personal pronouns, in English, are allowed, 
oy grammarians, to possess two cases besides the nominative; 
a genitive, and an accusative : I, mine, me; thou, thine , 
thee ; he, his, him; who, whose, whom . 

Adjectives, or terms of quality, such as, great, little, 
black, white, are the plainest and simplest of all that class 
of words which are termed attributive. They are common 
to all languages, and must have been very early invented; 
since objects could neither be distinguished, nor treated of 
in discourse, till names were given to their different qualities. 
There is nothing, however, to be observed in relation to 
them, except that singularity which attends them in the 
Greek and Latin, of having the same form given them with 
substantive nouns ; being declined, like them, by cases, 
and subjected to the same distinctions of number and gender. 
Hence, grammarians have made them belong to the same 
part of speech, and divided the noun into substantive and 
adjective ; an arrangement, founded more in attention to the 
external form of words, than to their nature and force. For 
adjectives have not, by their nature, the least resemblance to 
substantive nouns, as they never express any thing which 
can possibly subsist by itself; which is the very essence of 
the substantive noun. They are, indeed, more nearly allied 
to verbs, which, like them, express the attribute of some 
substance. 


As to cases, what is remarked 1 What cases are the personal pronouns 
in English allowed to possess; and what illustrations are given 1 Of ad¬ 
jectives, what is observed ; and from what does it appear that they must 
have been very early invented 1 What, only, however, is to be observed 
in relation to them ? Hence, how have grammarians treated them; and 
of this arrangement what is observed 1 How does it appear that adjectives 
have no relation to nouns; to what are they more nearly allied; and why 1 


ANALYSIS. 


The parts of speech. 

1. Nouns. 

A. Distinguished by articles. 

a. Indefinite and definite. 

b. Their importance illus¬ 

trated i 

B. Number. 

C. Gender. 

a. Its philosophical application. 


b. The advantages of the 
English language. 

D. Case. 

a. Its signification. 

b. Its variations. 

2. Pronouns. 

A. Their origin. 

3. Adjectives. 









LECTURE IX. 

STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE.—ENGLISH 
TONGUE. 

Of all the parts of speech, verbs are, by far, the most 
complex. It is chiefly in them that the subtle and profound 
metaphysic of language appears; and from their importance 
and necessity in speech, we may justly conclude that they 
were coeval with the origin of language; though a long 
time must have been requisite to rear them up to that accu¬ 
racy in which they are now found. It seems very probable, 
that the radical verb, or the earliest form of it, in most lan¬ 
guages, would be what we now call the impersonal verb; 
“ It rains ; it thunders ; it. is light; it is agreeable and 
the like ; as this is the very simplest form of the verb, and 
merely affirms the existence of an event, or of a state of 
things. After pronouns were invented, such verbs became 
gradually personal, and were extended through all the 
variety of tenses and moods. 

The tenses of the verb are contrived to mark the several 
distinctions of time. We think, commonly, of no more than 
the three great divisions, of past, present, and future ; and 
we might imagine, that if verbs had been so contrived, as 
merely to express these, no more would have been necessary. 
But language proceeds with much greater art and subtlety. 
It splits time into its several moments : it regards it as never 
standing still, but always flowing; things past, as more or 
less perfectly completed; and things future, as more or less 
remote, by different gradations. Hence, the great variety ol 
tenses, found in almost every language. 

The present may, indeed, always be regarded as one 


Compared with other parts of speech, what is observed of the verb 'l In 
them, chiefly, what appears; why may we conclude that they were coeval 
with the origin of language; and what follows 'l What seems probable 
would be the radical verb in most languages; and why 'l What followed 
the invention of pronouns 1 For what are the tenses of verbs contrived 1 
Of what divisions do we commonly think ; and under what circumstances 
might we imagine that no more were necessary 1 But how does language 
proceed; and hence what follows 1 How may the present be regarded • 
and what example is given I 



71 


LECT.9.J STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 

indivisible point, susceptible of no variety. I write, or I am 
writing ; scribo. But it is very different with the past. 
Even the poorest language has two or three tenses to express 
its varieties. Ours has no less than four. 1. A past action 
may be considered as left unfinished; which forms the im¬ 
perfect tense, “ I was writing,” scribebam. 2. As just now 
finished. This forms the proper perfect tense, which, in 
English, is always expressed by the help of the auxiliary 
verb, “ I have written.” 3. It may be considered as 
finished some time ago; the particular time left undeter¬ 
mined. “I wrote, scripsi ;” which may either signify, 
“ I wrote yesterday, or, I wrote a year ago.” This is what 
grammarians call an ororist, or indefinite past. 4. It may 
be considered as finished before something else, which is also 
past. This is the pluperfect, “ I had written ; scripseram. 
I had written before I received his letter.” Here we must 
perceive, with some pleasure, an advantage which we have 
over the Latins, who have only three variations upon the 
past time. They have no proper perfect tense, or one which 
distinguishes an action just now finished, from an action 
that was finished some time ago. 

The varieties in the future time are two; a simple or 
indefinite future ; “ I shall write, scribam and a future, 
relating to something else, which is also future, “ I shall 
have written, scripsero .” I shall have written before he 
arrives. 

Besides tenses, or the power of expressing the distinctions 
of time, verbs admit a distinction of voices, into the active 
and the passive ; according as the affirmation respects some¬ 
thing that is done, or something that is suffered : “ I love, 
or, I am loved.” They admit, also, the distinction of moods, 
which are intended to express the affirmation, whether active 
or passive, under different forms. The indicative mood, for 
instance, simply declares a proposition; “ I write, I have 
written :” The imperative requires, commands, threatens ; 
“ write thou, let him write.” The subjunctive expresses 
the proposition under the form of a condition, or in subor- 

But, of the past, what is remarked; and how many tenses has even the 
poorest language 'l How many has ours: and what are examples of each 7 
Hence what may we, with some pleasure, perceive; and what tense do 
they not possess 1 How many varieties are there in the future time ; and 
what are the examples % Besides tenses, what other distinction do verbs 
admit; and according to what % They admit also of what; and for what 
are tney intended 'l How is this illustrated 1 




72 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [Lect. 9 

dination to some other thing, to which a reference is made; 
“I might write, I could write, I should write, if the case 
were so and so.” This mode of expressing an affirmation 
under so many different forms, together, also, with the dis¬ 
tinction of the three persons, I, thou , and he , constitutes 
what is called the conjugation of verbs, which makes so 
great a part of the grammar of all languages. 

TheTorm of conjugation, or the manner of expressing the 
varieties of the verb, differs greatly in different tongues. It 
is esteemed most perfect in those languages which, by vary¬ 
ing either the termination or the initial syllable of the verb, 
express the greatest number of important circumstances, 
without the help of auxiliary verbs. In the oriental tongues, 
the verbs are said to have few tenses ; but their moods are 
so contrived as to express a great variety of circumstances 
and relations. In the Hebrew, for instance, they say, in one 
word, without the help of any auxiliary, not only “ I have 
taught,” but, “ I have taught exactly, or often ; I have been 
commanded to teach; I have taught myself.” The Greek, 
which is the most perfect of all the known tongues, is very 
regular and complete in all the moods and tenses. The 
Latin, though formed on the same model, is not so perfect; 
particularly in the passive voice, which forms most of the 
tenses, by the help of the auxiliary “ sum .” 

In all the modern European tongues, conjugation is very 
defective. They admit few variations in the termination of 
the verb itself; but have almost constant recourse to their 
auxiliary verbs, throughout all the moods and tenses, both 
active and passive. Language has undergone a change in 
conjugation, perfectly similar to that which it has undergone 
in declension. As prepositions, prefixed to the noun, super¬ 
seded the use of cases ; so the two great auxiliary verbs, to 
have , and to be, with those other auxiliaries which we use 
in English, do, shall, will, may, and can, prefixed to the 
principal, supersede, in a great measure, the different ter- 


What does this mode of expression constitute; and what is observed of 
it ? Of the form of conjugation, what is remarked ; and in what language 
is it esteemed most perfect ? Of verbs in the oriental tongues, what is 
observed; and how is this illustrated from the Hebrew, the Greek, and the 
Latin'? What is the state of conjugation in modern European tongues'? 
What do they admit; but to what have they almost constant recourse 1 
How does it appear that language has undergone a change in conjugation, 
similar to that which it has undergone in declension ? 



Lect. 9.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 73 

minations of moods and tenses, which formed the ancient 
conjugations. 

The remaining parts of speech, which are indeclinable, 
or admit of no variations, will not require much discussion. 

Adverbs are an abridged mode of speech, expressing, by 
one word, what might, by a circumlocution, he resolved into 
two or more words belonging to the other parts of speech. 
“ Exceedingly,” for instance, is the same as “ in a high 
degree;” “bravely,” the same as, “with bravery or 
valor;” “ here,” the same as “ in this place.” Hence, 
adverbs may he conceived to be less necessary, and of later 
introduction into the system of speech, than many other 
classes of words ; and, accordingly, the great body of them 
are derived from other words formerly established in the 
language. 

Prepositions and conjunctions, are words more essential 
to discourse, than the greater part of adverbs. They form 
that class of words, called connectives; and serve to express 
the relations which things bear to each other, their mutual 
influence, dependencies, and coherence; and thereby join 
words together into intelligible and significant propositions. 
Conjunctions are generally employed for connecting sen¬ 
tences, or members of sentences; as, and, because , and the 
like. Prepositions are used for connecting words, by show¬ 
ing the relation which one substantive noun bears to another; 
as of, from, to, <fcc. The beauty and strength of every 
language depends, in a great measure, on tne proper use of 
conjunctions, prepositions, and also those relative pronouns, 
which serve the same purpose of connecting the different 
parts of discourse. It is the right or wrong management 
of these, which chiefly makes discourse appear firm and 
compacted, or disjointed and loose; which carries it on its 
progress with a smooth and even pace, or renders its march 
irregular and desultory. 

Having thus briefly considered the structure of language 

Of the remaining parts of speech, what is remarked 1 What are ad¬ 
verbs ; and what illustrations are given % Hence, what is remarked of 
them; and, accordingly, what follows'? What is remarked of preposi¬ 
tions and conjunctions'? What do they form; for what do they serve; 
and what do they thereby do % What do conjunctions connect; and what 
are examples % In what manner do prepositions connect words, and 
what examples are given 1 On what do the beauty and strength of 
every language, in a great measure, depend ; and what is the effect 
of the right or wrong management of them 1 Having thus considered 
the structure of language in general, into what shall we now enter ? 



74 ENGLISH TONGUE. [Lect. 9. 

in general, we shall now enter more particularly into an 
examination of our own. 

The language which hag been spoken throughout Great 
Britain, ever since the Norman conquest, is a mixture of the 
ancient Saxon and Norman French, together with such new 
and foreign words as commerce and learning have, in a 
succession of ages, gradually introduced. So formed, the 
English, like every other compounded language, must needs 
be somewhat irregular. We cannot expect from it, that 
correspondence of parts, that complete analogy in structure, 
which may he found in those simple languages, which have 
been formed, in a manner, within themselves, and built on 
one foundation. Hence, our syntax is confined, since there 
are few remarks in the words themselves, which can show 
their relation to each other, or point out either their con¬ 
cordance, or their government in the sentence. 

But, if these be disadvantages in a compound language, 
they are balanced by other advantages which attend it; par¬ 
ticularly by the number and variety of words with which 
such a language is commonly enriched. Few 'languages 
are, in reality, more copious than the English. In all grave 
subjects especially, historical, critical, moral, and political, 
no writer has the least reason to complain of the barrenness 
of our tongue. The studious reflecting genius of the peo¬ 
ple, has brought together a great store of expressions, on 
such subjects, from every quarter. We are rich, too, in the 
language of poetry. Our poetical style differs widely from 
prose, not with respect to numbers only, but in the very 
words themselves ; which shows what a variety of words 
we have it in our power to select and employ, suited to those 
different occasions. Herein we are infinitely superior to 
the French, whose poetical language, if it were not dis¬ 
tinguished by rhyme, would not be known to differ from 
their ordinary prose. It is chiefly, indeed, in grave sub¬ 
jects, and with respect to the stronger emotions of the 
mind, that our language'displays its power of expression. 


Of what is the language, spoken throughout Great Britain ever since the 
Norman conquest, a mixture; and what is observed of it 1 What can we 
not expect from it; and, hence, of our syntax, what is remarked '? Though 
these be disadvantages, yet, by what are they balanced % In what subjects, 
particularly, is our language very copious; and what remark follows I Oi 
our poetical style, what is remarked; and what does this show q Hereiia 
we are superior to whom; and of their poetical language, what is re 
marked 1 Where does our language display its power of expression q 



Lect. 9.] ENGLISH TONGUE. 75 

In expressing whatever is delicate, gay, or amusing, however, 
the French language far surpasses ours. It is, perhaps, the 
happiest language for conversation, in the known world j but 
on the higher subjects of composition, the English may be 
justly esteemed greatly to excel it. 

The flexibility of language, or its power of accommo¬ 
dation to different styles and manners, so as to be either 
grave and strong, or easy and flowing, or tender and gentle, 
as occasions require, or as an author’s genius prompts, is a 
quality of great importance in speaking and writing. This 
depends on the copiousness of a language, the different 
arrangements of which its words are susceptible, and the 
variety and beauty of the sound of those words, so as to cor¬ 
respond to many different subjects. No language ever pos¬ 
sessed these qualities so eminently as the Greek. To the 
qualities already mentioned, it joined the graceful variety of 
its different dialects; and thereby readily assumed every 
sort of character which an author could wish, from the most 
simple and familiar, to the most majestic. The Latin, 
though a very beautiful language, is inferior, in this respect, 
to the Greek. It has more of a fixed character of stateli¬ 
ness and gravity ; and is supported by a certain senatorial 
dignity, of which it is difficult for a writer wholly to divest 
it, on any occasion. Among the modern tongues, the Italian 
possesses much more flexibility than the French; and 
appears to be, on the whole, the most perfect of all the 
modern dialects, which have arisen on the ruins of the 
ancient. Our own language, though, perhaps, not equal to 
the Italian in flexibility, yet possesses a considerable degree 
of this quality. Whoever considers the diversity of style 
which appears in some of our best writers, will discover, in 
our tongue, such a circle of expression, such a power of 
accommodation to the various tastes of men, as redounds, in 
the highest degree, to its honor. 


In what, does the French language far surpass ours ; for what 18 it the 
happiest language in the world; but where does ours greatly excel it ? 
What quality is of great importance, either in speaking or writing; and 
on what does this depend 1 What language possessed these qualities 
most eminently 'l To the qualities already mentioned, what did it join; 
and thereby what did it assume 1 How does it appear that the Latin, in 
this respect, is inferior to the Greek 1 Among modern languages, what is 
observed of the Italian ? Of onr language, in this respect, what is remarked ; 
and what will any one discover, who considers the diversity of style which 
appears in some of our best writers 1 



76 ENGLISH TONGUE. [Lect. 9 

The English has been most taxed with its deficiency in 
narmony of sound. But the melody of its versification, its 
power of supporting poetical numbers without the assistance 
of rhyme, is a sufficient proof, that it is far from being 
unharmonious. Even the hissing sound with which it has 
been taxed, obtains less frequently than has been suspected : 
in the first syllables, particularly, where the letter 5 is 
transformed into z, which is one of the sounds on which the 
ear rests wkh pleasure ; as in has , these , loves , hears , &c. 

After all, however, it must be admitted, that smoothness, 
or beauty of sound, is not one of the distinguishing proper¬ 
ties of the English tongue. Though not incapable of being 
formed into melodious arrangements, yet strength and ex¬ 
pressiveness, rather than grace and melody, form its charac¬ 
ter. It possesses, however, this property—it is the most 
simple, in its form and construction, of all the European 
dialects. It is free from all intricacy of cases, declensions, 
moods, and tenses. Its words are subject to fewer variations 
from their original form than those of any other language. 
Its substantives have no distinction of gender, except what 
nature has made ; and but one variation in case. Its adjec- 
-ives admit of no change, except what expresses the degree 
of comparison. Its verbs, instead of running through all 
the varieties of ancient conjugation, admit only four or five 
changes in termination. A few prepositions and auxiliary 
verbs supply all the purposes of significancy in meaning; 
while the words, for the most part, preserve their form 
unchanged. Hence, our language acquires a simplicity 
and facility, which is the reason , why it is so frequently 
written and spoken with inaccuracy. We imagine that a 
competent skill in it may he acquired without any study ; 
and that in a syntax so narrow and confined as ours, there is 
nothing which demands attention. Hence, arises the habit 
of writing in a loose and inaccurate manner. But the fun¬ 
damental rules of syntax are the same in all languages, and 
attention to them is absolutely necessary for writing or 


With what deficiency has the English language been most taxed ; but 
what is a sufficient proof, that it is far from being unharmonious'l Of the 
hissing sound with which it has been taxed, what is observed; and 
what illustration follows h After all, however, of it what must be admitted; 
and what form its character 1 But what property does it possess; from 
what is it free; and of its words what is remarked 'l How is this fully 
illustrated 7 Hence, what does it acquire; and what do we imagine ? 
Hence, arises what habit; but what follows 1 




Lect. 9.] ENGLISH TONGUE. 77 

speaking with any degree of purity, propriety, or elegance. 

Whatever the advantages or defects of the English lan¬ 
guage may be, as it is our own language, it demands a high 
degree of our study and attention. It is well known, to 
what an extent the Greeks and Romans, in their most polished 
and flourishing times, cultivated their respective tongues. 
The French and the Italians, also, have bestowed much 
attention upon theirs. And their example deserves the 
more to be imitated, as, whatever knowledge maybe acquired 
by the study of other languages, it can never be commum- 
cated with advantage, except by those who can write and 
speak their own language with propriety and skill. Though 
the matter of an author be ever so good and useful, his com¬ 
positions will always suffer in the public esteem, if his 
expression be deficient in purity and elegance. At the same 
time, the attainment of a correct and elegant style, is an 
object which demands attention and labor. If any imagine 
that they can catch it by the ear, or acquire it by a slight 
perusal of some of our good authors, they will find them¬ 
selves much disappointed. The numerous grammatical 
errors, and the frequent offences against purity of language, 
committed by writers, who, in other respects, are far from 
being contemptible, demonstrate that a careful study of the 
language is previously requisite, in all who aim at writing it 
correctly. * 

* On this subject, the reader should study, with the greatest care, “ A 
Philosophical and Practical Grammar of the English Language,” by Noah 
Webster, Esq., and the Institutes of English Grammar, by Goold Brown. 


Whatever the advantages or defects of the English language may be, 
what does it deserve; and why] Of the attention of the Greeks and 
Romans, and the French and Italians, to their respective languages, what 
is remarked ; and why does their example deserve to be imitated I How 
is this illustrated ? At the same time, what demands attention and labor ; 
and what remark follows I What is the closing remark I 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Verbs. 

A. Tenses. 

a. Present, past, ar*d future. 

B. Voices. 

C. Moods. 

D. Conjugation. 

a. Of ancient languages. 

b. Of modern languages. 

C. Auxiliaries. 

2. Adverbs. 


3. Prepositions. 

4. Conjunctions. 

5. The sources of the English 

language. * 

A. Its disadvantages. 

B. Its advantages. 

6. The flexibility of language. 

7. The character of the English 

language. 

A. The necessity of studying it. 


7 * 







LECTURE X. 

STYLE—PERSPICUITY AND PRECISION. 


Having finished the subject of language, style is the next 
subject of consideration. 

Style is the peculiar manner in which a man expresses his 
conceptions by means of language. It is different from 
mere language or words. The words which an author em¬ 
ploys, may be proper and faultless ; and his style may, 
nevertheless, have great faults : it may be dry, or stiff, or 
feeble, or affected. Style has always some reference to an 
author’s manner of thinking. It is a picture of the ideas 
which arise in his mind, and of the manner in which they 
originate : hence, when we are examining an author’s com¬ 
position, it is, in many cases, extremely difficult, to separate 
the style from the sentiment; and that they should be so 
intimately connected, is not to be wondered at, since style is 
nothing else than that sort of expression which our thoughts 
most readily assume. 

All the qualities of a good style, may be arranged under 
-two heads ; perspicuity and ornament. For all that can pos¬ 
sibly be required of language is, to convey our ideas clearly 
to the minds of others; and, at the same time, in such a 
dress, as by pleasing and interesting them, shall most 
effectually strengthen the impression which we seek to 
make. 

Perspicuity, it will be readily admitted, is the fundamental 
quality of style ; and is so essential in every kind of writing, 
that for the want of it nothing can atone. Without it, the 
richest ornaments of style only glimmer through the dark ; 
and perplex, instead of pleasing the reader. If we are 
obliged to follow a writer with much care, to pause, and to 


Having finished the subject of language, what is the next subject of con¬ 
sideration 'l What is style ? How is it made to appear, that style is dif¬ 
ferent from mere language or words ? To what has style always some 
reference ; of what is it a picture ; and hence what follows ? Why is not 
their intimate connection a matter of wonder? Under what two heads 
may all the qualities of a good style be ranged ; and why ? What is the 
fundamental quality of style; and what is observed of it? Without it, 
what would be the effect of the richest ornaments ? Under what circum¬ 
stances will a writer fail to please us; and what remarks follow ? 



Lect. 10.] PERSPICUITY. 79 

read over his sentences a second time, in order to compre¬ 
hend them fully, he will never please us long. Mankind 
are too indolent to relish so much labor. Though they may 
pretend to admire the author’s depth, after they have dis¬ 
covered his meaning, yet they will seldom be inclined to take 
up his work a second time. 

Perspicuity in writing, is not to he considered as merely 
a sort of negative virtue, or freedom from defect. It has 
higher merit; it is a degree of positive beauty. We are 
pleased with an author, and consider him as deserving 
praise, who frees us from all fatigue of searching for his 
meaning; who carries us through his subject without any 
embarrassment or confusion ; whose style flows always like 
a limpid stream, where we see to the very bottom. 

The study of perspicuity requires attention, first, to single 
words and phrases, and then to the construction of sentences. 
When considered with respect to words and phrases, it 
requires these three requisites ; purity, propriety , and pre 
cision. 

Purity and propriety of language, are often used iridis 
criminately for each other; and, indeed, they are very 
nearly allied. A distinction, however, obtains between 
them. Purity consists in the use of such words, and such 
constructions, as belong to the' idiom of the language which 
we speak ; in opposition to words and phrases that are im¬ 
ported from other languages, or that are obsolete, or new 
coined, or used without proper authority. Propriety is the 
selection of such words, as the best and most established 
usage has appropriated to those ideas which we intend to 
express by them. It implies the correct and happy applica¬ 
tion of them, according to that usage, in opposition to vulgar 
or low expressions ; and to words and phrases, which would 
be less significant of the ideas that we mean to convey. 
Style may be pure, that is, it may all be strictly English, 
without Scoticisms or Gallicisms, or ungrammatical ex¬ 
pressions of any kind, and may, nevertheless, be deficient in 
propriety. The words may be ill chosen; not adapted to 


Merely as what, is perspicuity not to be considered; and what higher 
merit has it 1 With an author of what description are we pleased ? In 
what order does perspicuity require. attention ; and when considered with 
respect to words and phrases, what are its three requisites 'l Of purity 
and propriety of language, what is remarked; and how are they dis¬ 
tinguished h How may style be pure, and at the same time be deficient in 
propriety; but, at the same time, where they both meet, what is their effect ? 



80 PRECISION. [Lect. 10 

the subject, nor fully expressive of the author’s meaning. 
He has taken them, indeed , from the general mass of English 
language; hut his choice has been made without happiness 
or skill. Style, however, cannot be proper without being 
also pure ; and where both purity and propriety meet, besides 
making style perspicuous, they also render it graceful. 

When obsolete, or new coined words, are mentioned, as 
being incongruous with purity of style, it will be understood 
of course, that some exceptions are to be made. On certain 
occasions, they may have grace. Poetry admits of greater 
latitude than prose, with respect to coining, or, at least, new 
compounding words ; yet, even here, this liberty should be 
used with a sparing hand. In prose, such innovations are 
more^hazardous, and have a worse effect. They are apt to 
give style an affected and conceited air ; and should never be 
used, except by those whose established reputation gives 
them some degree of dictatorial power over language. 

We shall now consider the import of precision in lan¬ 
guage, which, as it is the highest part of the quality denoted 
by perspicuity, and, at the same time, the least understood, 
merits a full discussion. 

The exact import of precision, may be drawn from the 
etymology of the word. It is derived from 4 pracider e,’ to 
cut off: it signifies retrenching all superfluities, and pruning 
the expression, so as to exhibit neither more nor less than an 
exact copy of his idea who uses it. It was observed before, 
that it is often difficult to separate the qualities of style from 
the qualities of thought; and it is found so in this instance. 
For, in order to write with precision, though this be properly 
a quality of style, one must possess a very considerable 
degree of distinctness and accuracy in his manner of 
thinking. 

The words which a man uses to express his ideas, may be 
faulty in three respects ; they may either not express that 
idea which the author intends, but some other which only 
resembles, or is akin to it; or, they may express that idea, 


Of the use of obsolete, or new coined words, in poetry, what is observed; 
yet, even here, how should this liberty be used I In prose, why are such 
innovations more hazardous; and by whom only should they be used ? 
The import of what shall we now consider ; and why does it merit a full 
discussion 'l Whence may the exact import of precision be drawn ; and 
what is it 'l What was before observed ; and why is it found to be so in 
this instance 1 In what three respects may the words that a man uses to 
express his ideas, be faulty I 




Lect. 10.] PRECISION. 81 

but not quite fully and completely; or, they may express it, 
together with something more than he intends. Precision 
stands opposed to all these three faults ; but chiefly to the 
last. In an author’s writing with propriety, his being free 
from the two former faults seems implied. The words 
which he uses are proper; that is, they express that idea 
which he intends, and they express it fully ; but to be pre¬ 
cise signifies that they express that idea, and no more. This 
requires a writer to have, himself, a very clear apprehension 
of the object he means to present to us; to have laid fast 
hold of it in his mind, and never to waver in any one view 
he tak§s of it—a perfection to which, indeed, few writers 
attain. 

The use of a superfluity of words, forms what is generally 
called a loose style; and is the proper opposite to precision. 
Feeble writers employ a multitude of words to make them¬ 
selves understood, as they think, more distinctly ; and they 
only confound the reader. They are sensible of not having 
caught the precise expression, to convey what they would 
signify; they do not, indeed, conceive their own meaning 
very precisely themselves; and, therefore, help it out, as 
they can, by this and the other word, which may, as they 
suppose, supply the defect, and bring you somewhat nearer 
to their idea : they are always going about it, and about it, 
but never just hit the thing. The image, as they set it be¬ 
fore you, is always seen double; and no double image is 
distinct. When an author tells us of his hero’s courage in 
the day of battle, the expression is precise, and we under¬ 
stand it fully. But if, from a desire of multiplying words, 
he will praise his courage and fortitude; at the moment 
he joins these two words together, our idea begins to waver. 
He intends to express one quality more strongly; but he is, 
in fact, expressing two. Courage resists danger; fortitude 
supports pain. The occasion of exerting each of these 
qualities is different; and being led to think of both of them 


To which of these three faults, particularly, does precision stand opposed; 
and why ? How is this illustrated? What does this require ; and of it what 
is observed ? What forms what is generally called a loose style; and of 
what is it the proper opposite 7 Why do feeble writers employ a multi¬ 
tude of words ; and what is their effect? Of what are they sensible ; and 
as they do not conceive their own meaning clearly, what consequence fol¬ 
lows ? Of the image, as they set it before us, what is remarked ? How is 
this illustrated from the words courage and fortitude ? What is theiT 
respective signification; and what remarks follow ? 



82 PRECISION. [Lect. 10. 

together, when only one of them should engage our atten¬ 
tion, our view is rendered unsteady, and our conception of 
the object indistinct. 

The great source of a loose style, in opposition to pre¬ 
cision, is the injudicious use of those words termed synony¬ 
mous. They are called synonymous, because they agree 
in expressing one principal idea ; but, for the most part, if 
not always, they express it with some diversity in the cir¬ 
cumstances. They are'varied by some accessary idea which 
every word introduces, and which forms the distinction 
between them. Scarcely in any language, are there two 
words that convey precisely the same idea;, a ^person 
thoroughly conversant in the propriety of language, will 
always be able to observe something that distinguishes 
them. As they are like different shades of the same color, 
an accurate writer can employ them to great advantage, by 
using them so as to heighten and to finish the picture which 
he gives us. He supplies by one, what was wanting in the 
other to the force, or to the lustre of the image which he 
means to exhibit. 

In the English language, very many instances might be 
given of a difference in meaning among words reputed 
synonymous ; and as the subject is»of importance, we shall 
now point out some of these. The instances given, may, 
themselves, be of use ; and they will serve to show the neces¬ 
sity of attending, with care and strictness, to the exact import 
of words, if we would ever write with accuracy and precision. 

Austerity , severity, rigor. Austerity relates to the 
manner of living ; severity, of thinking; rigor, of punish¬ 
ment. To austerity, is opposed effeminacy; to severity, 
relaxation ; to rigor, clemency. A hermit, is austere in his 
life ; a casuist, severe in his application of religion or law; 
a judge, rigorous in his sentences. 

Custom , habit. Custom respects the action; habit, the 


What is the great source of a loose style; and why are they called 
synonymous ? But, for the most part, how do they express it; and how- 
are they varied ? What illustration follows ? As they are like different 
shades of the same color, how can an accurate writer employ them to 
great advantage; and in what manner ? In the English language of what 
might many instances be given; and why are some of these pointed out 'l 
Of the instances themselves, what is remarked; and to show what will 
they serve I What is the difference between austerity, severity, and 
rigor; and what illustration is given 1 How are custom and habit dis¬ 
tinguished ; and, by them, what do we respectively mean? What illus¬ 
tration follows ? 



Lect. 10 .] PRECISION. &S 

actor. By custom, we mean the frequent repetition of the 
same act; by habit, the effect which that repetition produces 
on the mind or body. By the custom of walking often in the 
streets, one acquires the habit of idleness. 

Surprised, astonished, amazed, confounded. We are 
surprised with what is new or unexpected ; we are astonished 
at what is vast or great; we are amazed at what is incom¬ 
prehensible ; we are confounded by what is shocking or 
terrible. 

Pride , vanity. Pride makes us esteem ourselves; 
vanity, makes us desire the esteem of others. It is just, 
therefore, to say, that a man may be too proud to be vain. 

Haughtiness, disdain. Haughtiness is founded on the 
high opinion we entertain of ourselves ; disdain, on the low 
opinion we have of others. 

To weary , to fatigue. The continuance of the same 
thing wearies us ; labor fatigues us. We become weary 
from standing; fatigued, from walking. A suiter wearies 
us by his perseverance ; fatigues us by his importunity. 

To abhor, to detest. To abhor, imports, simply, strong 
dislike ; to detest, imports, also, strong disapprobation. One 
abhors being in debt; he detests treachery. 

To invent, to discover. We invent things that are new ; 
we discover what was before hidden. Galileo invented the 
telescope ; Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood.. 

Only, alone. Only, imports that there is no other of the 
same kind ; alone, imports being accompanied by no other. 
An only child is one that has neither brother nor sister ; a 
child alone, is one that is left by itself. 

Entire, complete. A thing is entire, that wants none of 
its parts ; complete, that wants none of the appendages that 
belong to it. A man may have an entire house to himself; 
and yet not have one complete apartment. 

Tranquillity, peace, calm. Tranquillity respects a situ¬ 
ation free from trouble, considered in itself; peace, the 

What is the difference between surprised, astonished, amazed, and con¬ 
founded ? What is the relative effects of pride and vanity; and what 
remark is, therefore, just 1, On what are haughtiness and disdain, respect¬ 
ively founded ?- How is the difference between to weary and to fatigue, 
illustrated 'l What do to abhor and to detest, respectively denote; and 
what illustration fellows'? How is the distinction between to invent and 
to discover, illustrated 1 What is the difference between only and alone ; 
and what instance of illustration is given 'l How are entire and complete , 
distinguished ; and what example is given 'l Illustrate the difference be¬ 
tween tranquillity, peace, and calm. 




84 PRECISION. (Lect. 10 

same situation, with respect to any causes that might inter¬ 
rupt it; calm, with regard to a disturbed situation £oing 
before, or following it. A good man enjoys tranquillity in 
himself; peace with others ; and calm, after the storm. 

Wisdom, prudence. Wisdom, leads us to speak and act 
as is most proper ; prudence, prevents our speaking and act¬ 
ing improperly. A wise man employs the most proper 
means for success; a prudent man, the safest means for not 
being brought into danger. 

Enough, sufficient. Enough relates to the quantity which 
we wish to have of a thing; sufficient, relates to the use 
that is to be made of it. Hence, enough, generally imports 
a greater quantity than sufficient does. The covetous man 
never has enough: although he has what is sufficient for 
nature. 

With, by. Both these particles express the connection 
between some instrument or means of effecting an end, and 
the agent who employs it; but with , expresses a more close 
and immediate connection ; by, a more remote one. A mai 
killed with a sword, dies by violence. The criminal is 
bound with ropes by the executioner.* 

These are a few, among many instances of words, in our 
language, which, by careless writers, are apt to be considered 
as synonymous. Their significations approach, but are not 
precisely the same. The more the distinction in the mean¬ 
ing of such words is weighed, and attended to, the more 
accurately and forcibly shall we speak and write. 

It was observed before, that though all subjects of writing 
or discourse demand perspicuity, yet all do not require it to 
an equal degree. It is, indeed, in every sort of writing, a 
great beauty to have, at least, some measure of precision, in 
distinction from that loose profusion of words which imprints 

* The author had it in contemplation, when he commenced this abridg¬ 
ment, to extend these discriminations through the space of another lecture; 
but having concluded, soon to offer to the public a work on this subject, he 
has abandoned his original design. 


Of wisdom and prudence , what is remarked; and how is this illus¬ 
trated 1 What is the difference between enough and sufficient; hence, 
what follows ; and what illustration is given 'l With and by, both express 
the connection between what; but with what difference, and what illus- 
i ations follow % On the instances of synonymous words, here given, what 
is remarked; and what will be the effect of weighing such distinctions'? 
What was before observed; and what is, in every sort of writing, a great 
beauty '? 





Lect. 10.] 


PRECISION. 


85 


no clear idea on the reader’s mind. But we must, at the 
same time, be on our guard, lest too great a study of pre¬ 
cision, especially in subjects where it is not strictly requisite, 
betray us into a dry and barren style ; lest, from a desire of 
pruning too closely, we retrench all copiousness and orna¬ 
ment. To write with copiousness and precision, to be flow¬ 
ing and graceful, and, at the same time, correct and exact in 
the choice of every word, is, doubtless, one of the highest 
and most difficult attainments in writing. But we must 
study never to sacrifice, totally, any one of these qualities 
to the other ; and, by a proper management, both of them 
may be made fully consistent, if our ideas be precise, and our 
knowledge and stock of words be, at the same time, ex 
tensive. 


But, about what must we, at the same time, be on our guard; and why ? 
What is, doubtless, one of the highest and most difficult attainments in 
writing ; and what follows 1 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The definition of style. 

2. The qualities of a good style. 
A. Perspicuity. 

a. Purity. 


B. A loose style. 

C. Synonymous words. 


a. Examples of discrimina¬ 


tions. 


b. Propriety. 

c. Precision. 


D. Concluding remarks. 


8 








LECTURE XL 

STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 

A sentence always implies some one complete proposition 
or enunciation of thought. Aristotle defines it to be “a 
form of speech which hath a beginning and an end within 
itself, and is of such a length as to be easily comprehended 
at once.” This, however, admits of considerable latitude. 
For a sentence, or period, consists, always, of component 
parts, which are called its members; and as these members 
may be either few or many, and may be connected in several 
different ways, the same thought, or mental proposition, 
may often be either brought into one sentence, or split into 
two or three, without the material breach of any rule. 

The first variety that occurs in the consideration of sen¬ 
tences, is, the distinction of long and short ones. Sentences 
immoderately long, and consisting of too many members, 
always transgress some one or other of the rules which 
shall be soon mentioned as necessary to be observed in every 
good sentence. In discourses that are to be spoken, regard 
must be had to the easiness of pronunciation, which is not 
consistent with too long periods. In compositions where 
pronunciation has no place, still, however, by using long 
periods too frequently, an^uthor overloads the reader’s ear, 
and fatigues his attention. At the same time, there may be 
an excess in too many short sentences also ; by which the 
sense is split and broken, the connection of thought weak¬ 
ened, and the memory burdened by presenting to it a long 
succession of minute objects. 

With regard to the length and construction of sentences, 
the French critics very justly divide style into style period- 
ique , and style coupe. The style periodique is where the 

What does a sentence always imply h How does Aristotle define it '? 
Of this definition what is remarked; and why/? What is the first variety 
that occurs in the consideration of sentences % Of sentences immoderately 
long what is observed 1 In discourses that are to be spoken, to what musl 
regard be had; and of compositions where pronunciation has no place, 
what is remarked 'l At the same time, in what may there be excess: and 
what is its effect 1 With regard to the length and construction of sen- 
tences, how do the French critics divide style 1 What is the style period 
ique ; what is observed of it; and where does it abound 1 




Lect. 11 .] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 8? 

sentences are composed of several members linked together, 
and hanging upon one another ; so that the sense of the 
whole is not brought out till the close. This is the most 
pompous, musical, and oratorical manner of composing ; and 
abounds in the writings of Cicero, and Sir William Temple. 
The style coupe is, where the sense is formed into short 
independent propositions, each complete within itself; as in 
the following of Mr. Pope: “I confess it was want of 
consideration that made me an author. I writ, because it 
amused me. I corrected, because it was as pleasant to me 
to correct as to write. I published, because I was told, I 
might please such as it was a credit to please.” This is 
very much the French manner of writing ; and always suits 
gay and easy subjects. The style periodique, g*ives an air of 
gravity and dignity to composition : the style coupe is more 
lively and striking. According to the nature of the com¬ 
position, therefore, and the general character it ought to 
bear, the one or the other may predominate. But in 
almost every kind of composition, the great rule is to inter¬ 
mix them. For the ear tires of either of them when too 
long continued : whereas, by a proper mixture of long and 
short periods, the ear is gratified, and a certain sprightliness 
is joined with majesty in our style. 

So much depends upon the proper construction of sen¬ 
tences, that in every kind of composition, we cannot be too 
strict in our attention to it. For, whatever the subject may 
be, if the sentences are constructed in a clumsy, perplexed, 
or feeble manner, it is impossible that a work, thus composed, 
should be read with pleasure, or even with profit. But, by 
giving attention to the rules which relate to this part of style, 
we acquire the habit of expressing ourselves with perspicuity 
and elegance ; and if a disorder chance to arise in any of 
our sentences, we immediately see where it lies, and are 
able to rectify it. 

The properties most essential to a perfect sentence, seem 
to be the four following: 1. Clearness and precision. 
2. Unity. 3. Strength. 4. Harmony. 


What is the style coupe ; and what example is given of it ? Whose man¬ 
ner of writing is this ; and what does it suit ? What is farther observed of 
these different styles; and why should they, in most compositions, be inter¬ 
mixed 1 As much depends upon the proper construction of sentences, 
what follows; and why 1 But, from attention to the rules which relate to 
this part of style, what will result 'l What are the properties most essential 
to a perfect sentence ? A* 



88 STRUCTURE OF [Leot. 11 

The least failure in clearness and precision, the least de¬ 
gree of ambiguity, which leaves the mind in any sort of sus¬ 
pense as to th *3 meaning, ought to be avoided with the great¬ 
est care ; nor is it so easy a matter to keep clear of all this 
as one might, at first, imagine. Ambiguity arises from two 
causes: either from a wrong choice of words, or a wrong 
collocation of them. Of the choice of words, as far as re¬ 
gards perspicuity, we have already spoken. Of the collo¬ 
cation of them we are now to treat. From the nature of 
our language, a leading rule in the arrangement of our sen¬ 
tences is, to place the words or members most nearly related, 
as near to each other in the sentence as possible; so as to 
make their mutual relation evident. This rule is too often 
neglected, even by good writers. A few instances will show, 
both its importance and its application. 

First, in the position of adverbs, which are used to qualify 
the signification of something which either precedes or fol¬ 
lows them, a good deal of nicety is to be observed. 4 By 
greatness,’ says Mr. Addison, ‘ I do not only mean the 
bulk of any single object, but the largeness of a whole 
view.’* Here the place of the adverb only , renders it a 
limitation of the following word, mean. ‘ I do not only 
mean.’ The question may then be asked, What does he 
more than mean 1 Had he placed it after bulk , still it would 
have been wrong. 4 I do not mean the bulk only of any 
single object.’ For he might then ask, What does he mean 
more than the bulk ? Is it the color ? Or any other property ? 
Its proper place, undoubtedly, is, after the word object. 

4 By greatness, I do not mean the bulk of any single object 
only ;’ for then, when we put the question, What more does 
he mean than the bulk of a single object ? The answer 
comes out exactly as the author intends, and gives it; 4 The 
largeness of a whole view.’ 4 Theism,’ says Lord Shaftes¬ 
bury, ‘can only be opposed to polytheism, or atheism.’ It 

* Spectator, No. 412. 


What should be avoided with the greatest care; and why ? From what 
two causes does ambiguity arise? Of which have we already spoken; 
and of which are w r e now to treat ? From the nature of our language, 
what is a leading rule in the arrangement of our sentences; and of this 
rule what is remarked ? In the first place, in the position of what adverbs, 
is a good deal of nicety to be observed? What example is given to illus¬ 
trate this remark ; and what is observed of it ? Where is its proper place; 
and why ? What instance is given from Lord Shaftesbury; and what is 
remarked of it ? 






Lect. 11.] SENTENCES. 89 

may be asked, then, is theism capable of nothing else, but 
being opposed to polytheism, or atheism ? This is what the 
words literally import, through the wrong collocation of 
only. He should have said, ‘ Theism can be opposed only 
to polytheism or atheism.’ In conversation, such inaccu¬ 
racies may have no material inconvenience, because the tone 
and emphasis used in pronouncing them, generally serve to 
show their reference, and to make the meaning clear. But, 
in writing, where a person speaks to the eye, and not to the 
ear, he ought to be more accurate; and so to connect 
those adverbs with the words which they qualify, as to put 
his meaning out of doubt, upon the first inspection. 

Secondly, when a circumstance is interposed in the middle 
of a sentence, it sometimes requires attention, to place it, so 
as to divest it of all ambiguity. For instance, 4 Are these 
designs,’ says Lord Bolingbroke, ‘ which any man, who is 
born a Briton, in any circumstances, in any situation, ought 
to be ashamed or afraid to avow V * Here we are left at a 
loss, whether these words, * in any circumstances , in any 
situation ,’ are connected with 4 a man born a Briton, in any 
circumstances, or situation,’ or with that man’s ‘avowing his 
designs, in any circumstances, or situation, into which he 
may be brought V If the latter, as seems most probable, 
was intended to be the meaning, the arrangement should 
have been thus: 4 Are these designs, which any man who 
is born a Briton, ought to be ashamed or afraid, in any cir¬ 
cumstances, in any situation, to avow V 

Thirdly, still more attention is required to the proper dis¬ 
position of the relative pronouns, who , which , what , ichose ; 
and of all those particles which express the connection of the 
parts of speech with one another. As all reasoning depends 
upon this connection, we cannot be too accurate with regard 
to it. A small error may obscure the meaning of the whole 
sentence; and even where the meaning is apparent, yet 

* Dissert, on Parties, Dedicat. 


Why may such inaccuracies have no material inconvenience in conver¬ 
sation ; but of them in writing what is remarked 1 In the second place, 
what sometimes requires attention; and to illustrate this remark, what 
example is given from Lord Bolingbroke 1 Here, about what are we left 
at a loss; and if the latter was intended to be the meaning, how should it 
have been arranged 7 In the third place, to what is still more attention 
required 1 As all reasoning depends upon this connection, what follows • 
and why 1 


8* 



90 STRUCTURE OF [Lect. 11 

where these relative partieles are misplaced, we always 
find something awkward and disjointed in the structure of 
the sentence. The following passage in one of Bishop 
Sherlock’s sermons,* will serve to exemplify these observa¬ 
tions : ‘ It is folly to pretend to arm ourselves against the 

accidents of life, by heaping up treasures, which nothing 
can protect us against, but the good providence of our 
Heavenly Father.’ Which always refers grammatically 
to the immediately preceding substantive, which is here 
4 treasure:’ and this would make nonsense of the whole 
period. Th^ sentence should have been constructed thus : 

‘ It is folly to pretend, by heaping up treasures, to arm our 
selves against the accidents of life, against which nothing 
can protect us, but the good providence of our Heavenly 
Father.’ Of the same nature is the following inaccuracy 
in the writings of Dean Swift. He is recommending to 
young clergymen, to write their sermons fully and distinctly. 
‘Many,’ says he, ‘act so directly contrary to this method, 
that, from a habit of saving time and paper, which they 
acquired at the university, they write in so diminutive a 
manner, that they can hardly read what they have written.’ 
He certainly does not mean that they had acquired time and 
paper at the university, but that they had acquired this habit 
there; and, therefore, his words ought to have run thus; 

‘ From a habit, which they have acquired at the university, 
of saving time and paper, they write in so diminutive a man¬ 
ner, that they can hardly read what they have yrritten.’ 

With regard to relatives, I must farther observe, that 
obscurity often arises from the too frequent repetition of them, 
particularly of the pronouns who , and they , and theirs , and 
them , when we have occasion to refer to different persons ; 
as in the following sentence of Archbishop Tillotson : 

‘ Men look with an evil eye upon the good that is in others ; 
and think that their reputation obscures them, and their 
commendable qualities stand in their light; and therefore 
they do what they can to cast a cloud over them, that the 
bright shining of their virtues may not obscure them.’f 

* Vol. II. Serm. 15. t Yol. I. Serin. 42. 


What passage will serve to exemplify this observation h On this sen¬ 
tence what is remarked; and how should it have been constructed 1 Of 
the same nature is what inaccuracy from Dean Swift 'l In this passage 
what does he not mean; and, therefore, how should his words have been 
arranged I With regard to relatives, what must be farther observed ; and 
as an illustration of this remark, what sentence is given from Tillotson 'l 






Lect. 11/ SENTENCES. 01 

This is altogether careless writing. It renders style often 
obscure, always embarrassed and inelegant; and to avoid it, 
the sentence should he thrown into some other form. 

We now proceed to the second quality of a well arranged 
sentence, which we termed its unity. This is a capital pro¬ 
perty. The very nature of a sentence implies one proposi¬ 
tion to he expressed. It may, indeed, consist of parts; but 
these parts must be so closely bound together, as to make the 
impression upon the mind, of one object, not of many. 

To preserve this unity, we must first observe, that during 
the course of the sentence, the scene should be changed as 
little as possible. There is, commonly, in every sentence, 
some person or thing, which is the governing word. This 
should be continued so, if possible, from the beginning.to the 
end of it. Should one express himself in this manner : 
4 After we came to anchor, they put me on shore, where I 
was welcomed by all my friends, who received me with the 
greatest kindne ss.’ Here, though the objects are sufficiently 
connected, yet by this manner of representing them, by 
shifting them so often, both the place and the person, we , 
and they , and /, and who, they appear in such a disunited 
view, that the sense of connection is nearly lost. The sen¬ 
tence may be restored to its proper unity, by turning it after 
the following manner : 4 Having come to an anchor, I was 

put on shore, where I was welcomed by all my friends, and 
received with the greatest kindness.’ 

Another rule is, never to crowd into one sentence, things 
which have so little connection, that they could bear to be 
divided into two or three sentences. The violation of this 
rule never fails to hurt and displease the reader. Its effect, 
indeed, is so bad, that of the two, it is the safer extreme, 
to err rather by too many short sentences, than by one that 
is overloaded and embarrassed. Examples of the trans¬ 
gression of this rule are exceedingly numerous. 4 Arch- 


Of this what is remarked; and to avoid it what must be done 'l What 
is the second quality of a well arranged sentence ; and of this, what is 
remarked 'l What does the very nature of a sentence imply ; of what 
may it consist; but of these what is observed 'l To preserve this unity, 
what is first to be observed 1 What does every sentence, commonly, con¬ 
tain ; and of this what is remarked 1 By what example is this remark 
illustrated; and what is observed of it ? How may this sentence be 
restored to its proper unity 1 What is another rule for preserving the unity 
of a sentence; .and what effect does the violation of it produce 1 What 
example of this is given from Tillotson ; and what is observed of it 1 



92 STRUCTURE OF [Lect. 11. 

bishop Tillotson,’ says an author of the History of England, 
4 died in this year. He was exceedingly beloved both by 
king William and queen Mary, who nominated Dr. Tenni- 
son, Bishop of Lincoln, to succeed him.’ Who would 
expect the latter part of this sentence to follow, in consequence 
of the former? ‘ He was exceedingly beloved by both king 
and queen,’ is the proposition of the sentence ; we look for 
some proof of this, or at least something related to it to fol¬ 
low ; when we are on a sudden carried off to a new propo¬ 
sition, 6 who nominated Dr. Tennison to succeed him,’ 
The following sentence, from a translation of Plutarch, is 
still worse : 4 Their march,’ says the author, speaking of 
the Greeks under Alexander, 4 was through an uncultivated 
country, whose savage inhabitants fared hardly, having no 
other riches than a breed of lean sheep, whose flesh was 
rank and unsavory, by reason of their continued feeding 
upon sea fish.’ Here the scene is changed again and 
again. The march of the Greeks, the description of the 
inhabitants through whose country they passed, the account 
of their sheep, and the reason that they were ill tasted food, 
form a jumble of objects, slightly related to each other, 
which the reader cannot, without much difficulty, compre¬ 
hend under one view. 

A third rule for preserving the unity of sentences, is, to 
keep clear of all parentheses in the middle of them. These 
may, on some occasions, have a spirited appearance ; as 
prompted by a certain vivacity of thought, which can glance 
happily aside, as it is going along. But, for the most part, 
their effect is extremely bad ; being a perplexed method of 
disposing of some thought, which a writer wants art to 
introduce into its proper place. Inaccuracies of this kind 
occur so frequently among incorrect writers, that it is not 
necessary to introduce any instances. 

We shall add only one rule more for the unity of a sen¬ 
tence, which is to bring it always to a full and perfect close. 
Every thing that is one, should have a beginning, a middle, 
and an end. It need hardly be observed, that an unfinished 


What sentence follows from a translation of Plutarch; and what is re¬ 
marked of it h ■ What is the third rule for preserving the unity of sen¬ 
tences 1 Why may these, on some occasions, have a spirited appearance ; 
but why is their effect, for the most part, extremely bad 1 Of the frequent 
occurrence of inaccuracies of this kind, what is remarked 1 What 
farther rule, only, is added for the unity of a sentence ; and why 1 What 
need hardly be observed; but what do we very often meet w*tb % 



Lect. 11. 


SENTENCES 


93 


sentence is no sentence at all, according to any grammatical 
rule. But we very often meet with sentences that are more 
than finished. When we have arrived at what we expected to 
be the conclusion, when we have come to the word on which 
the mind is naturally led, by wbat went before, to rest; unex¬ 
pectedly some circumstance pops out, which ought to have 
been omitted, or to have been disposed of elsewhere. Thus, 
for instance, in the following sentence, from Sir William 
Temple, the adjection to the sentence is entirely foreign to it. 
Speaking of Burnet’s Theory of the Earth, and Fontenelle’s 
Plurality of Worlds : 4 The first,’ says he, * could not end 
his learned treatise without a panegyric of modern learning, 
in comparison of the ancient; and the other, falls so grossly 
into the censure of the old poetry, and preference of the new, 
that I could not read either of these strains without some 
indignation ; which no quality among men is so apt to raise 
in me as self-sufficiency.’ The word 4 indignation,’ should 
have concluded the sentence ; for what follows is altogether 
new, and is added after the proper close. 


How is this remark illustrated ] What instance is given from Sir 
William Temple ] What word should have concluded the sentence; and 
why ] 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The definition of a sentence. \ 

2. Long and short sentences. 

A. The distinction of French i 


B. Unity. 


a. The scene not V. be 
changed. 


n. Distinct subjects not to be 
introduced in the same 
sentence. 


3. Essential properties of a perfect, 


critics. 


sentence. 


A. Clearness and precision. 


c. Parentheses in the middle 
of sentences to be avoid¬ 
ed. 


b. In the interposition of sen¬ 
tences. 


a. In the position of adverbs. 


c. In the distribution of rela¬ 
tives. 


d. Sentences to be brought to 
a full and perfect close. 









LECTURE XII. 


STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 

Having treated of perspicuity and unity, we proceed to 
the third quality of a correct sentence, which is termed 
strength. By this, is meant, such a disposition of the 
several words and members, as shall bring out the sense to 
the best advantage; as shall render the impression, which 
the period is designed to make, most full and complete ; and 
give every word, and every member, its due weight and 
force. To the production of this effect, perspicuity and 
unity are, no doubt, absolutely necessary; hut still more is 
requisite. For a sentence maybe clear enough; it may 
also be sufficiently compact, or have the requisite unity ; and 
yet, by some unfavorable circumstance in the structure, it 
may fail in that strength or liveliness of impression, which 
a more happy arrangement would have produced. 

The first rule which we shall give for promoting the 
strength of a sentence, is, to divest it of all redundant 
words. These may, sometimes, he consistent with a con¬ 
siderable degree both of clearness and unity; but they are 
always enfeebling. It is a general maxim, that, whatever 
can be easily supplied in the mind, is better left out in the 
expression. Thus : ‘ Content with deserving a triumph, he 
refused the honor of it,’ is better than to say, ‘ Being con¬ 
tent with deserving a triumph, he refused the honor of it.’ 
It is certainly, therefore, one of the most useful exercises of 
correction, upon reviewing what we have written or com¬ 
posed, to contract that round-about method of expression, 
and to lop off those useless excrescences, which are com¬ 
monly found in a first draught. But we must be careful not 
to run into the opposite extreme, of pruning so closely, as 


What is the third quality of a correct sentence; and by this what is 
meant'? To the production of this effect, why is something more than 
perspicuity and unity requisite ? What is the first rule given for the pro¬ 
motion of the strength of a sentence; and of these what is remarked I 
What is a general maxim; and of it what illustration is given 1 What, 
therefore, is one of the most useful exercises of correction 'l But about 
what must we be careful; and why % 




Lect. 12 .] STRUCTURE, &,c. 95 

to give a hardness and dryness to the style. Some leaves 
must be left to surround and shelter the fruit. 

As sentences should be cleared of redundant words, so 
also, they should not contain redundant members. As every 
word ought to present a new idea, so every member ought 
to contain a new thought. Opposed to this, stands the fault 
we sometimes meet with, of the last member of a period, 
being no other than the echo of the former, or the repetition 
of it in a different form. For example, speaking of beauty, 
‘ The very first discovery of it,’ says Mr. Addison, 
‘ strikes the mind with inward joy, and spreads delight 
through all the faculties.’ And elsewhere, ‘ It is impossi¬ 
ble for us to behold the divine works with coldness or 
indifference, or to survey so many beauties, without a secret 
satisfaction and complacency.’* In both these instances, 
little or nothing is added by the second member of the sen¬ 
tence to what was already expressed in the first; and though 
the free and flowing manner of such an author as Mr. Addi¬ 
son, may palliate such negligences ; yet, in general, it holds, 
that style, freed from this prolixity, appears both stronger 
and more beautiful. 

The second direction for promoting the'strength of a sen 
fence, is, to attend particularly to the use of copulatives, 
relatives, and all the particles employed for transition and 
connection. These little words, but, and, which, whose , 
where, &c. are frequently the most important words of any; 
they are the joints or hinges upon which all sentences turn, 
and of course, much, both of their gracefulness and strength, 
must depend upon such particles. Some observations on 
this subject, which appear to he worthy of particular remem¬ 
brance, shall here be noticed. 

What is termed the splitting of particles, or separating a 
preposition from the noun which it governs, is always to be 
avoided. As if we should say, ‘ Though virtue borrows 
no assistance from, yet it may often be accompanied by, the 

* Spectator, Nos. 412 and 413. 


As sentences should be cleared of redundant words, so, also, what should 
they not contain ; and as every word ought to present a new idea, so, what 
follows? Opposed to this stands what fault; and as illustratives of this 
remark, what examples are given 1 Of both these instances, what is 
observed; and what remark follows 1 What is the second direction for 
promoting the strength of a sentence ? Of these little words, but , and , 
which, &c., what is remarked 1 Of what is termed the splitting of particles, 
what is observed; what example is given; and what is its effect 1 




96 STRUCTURE GF [Lect. 12 

advantages of fortune.’ In such instances, we feel a sort 
of pain, from the revulsion, or violent separation of two 
things, which, by their nature, should he closely united. 

The simplicity of style is much injured by the unnecessary 
multiplication of relative and demonstrative particles : thus, 
if a writer should say, 4 There is nothing which disgusts 
me sooner than the empty pomp of language he would 
express himself less simply than if he had said, 4 Nothing 
disgusts me sooner than the empty pomp of language.” 
The former mode of expression, in the introduction of a 
subject, or m laying down a proposition to which particular 
attention is demanded, is exceedingly proper ; but, in the 
ordinary current of discourse, the latter is to be preferred. 

With regard to the omission or insertion of the relative, 
we shall only observe, that in conversation and epistolary 
writing, it may be often omitted with propriety ; but in com¬ 
positions of a serious and dignified kind, it should constantly 
be inserted. 

With regard to the copulative particle, and, which occurs 
so frequently in all kinds of composition, several obser¬ 
vations are to be made. First, it is evident, that the unne¬ 
cessary repetition of it enfeebles style. It has the same sort 
of effect, as the frequent use of the vulgar phrase, and so, 
when one is telling a story in common conversation. The 
following sentence from Sir William Temple, will illustrate 
this remark. He is speaking of the refinement of the 
French language: 4 The academy set up by Cardinal 

Richelieu, to amuse the wits of that age and country, and 
divert them from raking into his politics and ministry, 
brought this into vogue ; and the French wits have, for this 
last age, been wholly turned to the refinement of their style 
and language; and, indeed, with such success, that it can 
hardly be equalled, and runs equally through their verse and 
their prose.’ Here are no fewer than eight ands in one 
sentence. This agreeable writer too often makes his sen¬ 
tences drag in this manner by a careless multiplication of 
copulatives. 


By the unnecessary multiplication of what, is the simplicity of style, also, 
much injured ; and what example is given 1 Where is the former "mode of 
expression proper; and where not 1 With regard to the omission and 
insertion of the relative, what, only, is observed 1 With regard to the 
copulative and, what is the first observation made; and as what, has it 
the same effect 1 What sentence will illustrate this remark ; and of what 
is he speaking 1 Here are how many ands ; and what remark follows ? 




Lect. 12.] SENTENCES. 97 

But in the next place, it is worthy of observation, that, by 
dropping the conjunction, we often mark a closer connection, 
a quicker succession of objects, than when it is inserted 
between them. 4 Veni , vidi , vici ,’— 4 I came, I saw, I 
conquered,’ expresses with more spirit, the rapidity and 
quick succession of conquest, than if connecting particles 
had been used. When, however, we desire to prevent a 
quick transition from one object to another, and when we 
are enumerating objects, which we wish to appear as distinct 
from each other as possible, copulatives may be multiplied 
with peculiar advantage. Thus Lord Bolingbroke says, 
with elegance and propriety, 4 Such a man might fall a vic¬ 
tim to power ; but truth, and reason, and liberty, would fall 
with him.’ In the same manner Ceesar describes an en¬ 
gagement with the Nervii; 4 The enemy, having easily beat 
off, and scattered this body of horse, ran down with incredi¬ 
ble celerity to the river ; so that, almost at one moment of 
time, they appeared to be in the woods, and in the river, and 
in the midst of our troops.’ 

A third rule for promoting the strength of a sentence, is, 
to dispose of the capital word or words, in that place of the 
sentence, where they will make the fullest impression. That 
such capital words there are in every sentence, on which the 
meaning principally rests, every one must see ; and that 
these words should possess a conspicuous and distinguished 
place, is equally plain. Perspicuity, then, is the first thing 
to be studied; and the nature of our language allows no 
great liberty in the choice of collocation. In general, the 
important words are placed in the beginning of the sentence. 
Thus Mr. Addison : 4 The pleasures of the imagination, 
taken in their full extent, are not so gross as those of sense, 
nor so refined as those of the understanding.’ This, indeed, 
seems the plainest and most natural order, to place that in 
the front which is the chief object of the proposition we are 
laying down. Sometimes, however, when we purpose 

But in the next place, of dropping the conjunction, what is observed; and 
by what example is this illustrated 7 When, however, may copulatives be 
multiplied with peculiar advantage; and what examples are given from 
Lord Bolingbroke, and from Caesar 7 What is the third rule for pro¬ 
moting the strength of a sentence; and of such capital words, what is 
observed 7 Here, what is the first thing to be studied ; and of our lan¬ 
guage, in this respect, what is remarked 7 In general, where do we place 
the most important words ; and what illustration follows 7 Though this 
seems the most natural order, yet what is sometimes requisite ; and what 
illustration is given 7 




93 STRUCTURE OF [Lkct. 1» 

giving weight to a sentence, it is proper to suspend the 
meaning for a while,, and then to bring it out full at the close : 
‘ Thus,’ says Mr. Pope, ‘ on whatever side we contemplate 
-Homer, what principally strikes us, is, his wonderful 
invention.’ 

The Greek and Latin writers had a considerable advan¬ 
tage over us in this part of style. By the great liberty of 
inversion which their languages allowed, they could choose 
the most advantageous situation for every word; and had it 
thereby-in their power to give their sentences more force. 
Milton, in his prose works, and some other of our old 
English writers, endeavored to imitate them in this. But the 
forced constructions which they employed, produced oh 
scurity ; and the genius of our language, as it is now 
written and spoken, will not admit such liberties. Mr. Gor¬ 
don, who followed, this inverted style, in his translation of 
Tacitus, has sometimes done such violence to the language* 
as even to appear ridiculous ; as in this expression : 4 Intu 
this hole thrust themselves, three Roman senators.’ How¬ 
ever, within certain bounds, and to a limited degree, oui 
language does admit of inversions; and they are practised 
with success by the best writers. For example ; Mr. Pope,, 
speaking of Homer, says, ‘ The praise of judgment Virgil 
has justly contested with him, but his invention remains yet 
unrivalled.’ 

A fourth rule for constiucting sentences- with proper 
strength is, to make the members of them go on rising and 
growing in their importance above one another. This sort 
of arrangement is called a climax, and is always considered 
as a beauty in composition. Why it pleases, is abundantly 
evident. In all things, we naturally love to ascend to what 
is more and more beautiful, rather than to follow the retro¬ 
grade order. Having had once some considerable object 
set before us, it is with pain we are pulled back to attend to 
an inferior circumstance. ‘ Cavendum est,’ says Quin¬ 
tilian, ‘ ne deerescat ©ratio, et fortiori subjungatur aliquid 


What advantage had the Greeks and Latins over ns in this part 
•>f style 7 Who have endeavored to imitate them in this; how did 
they succeed; and why 7 What illustration is given from Gordon’s 
translation of Tacitus'? What remark follows; and what example 
is given from Mr. Pope What is the fourth rule for constructing sen¬ 
tences with proper strength 7 What is this sort of arrangement called; 
and what is observed of it 7 Why does it please; and what says 
Quintilian on this subject'? 




Lect. 12.] SENTENCES. 99 

infirmius.’* When a sentence consists of two members, the 
longest should, in general, he the concluding one. Hence 
the pronunciation is rendered more easy ; and the shortest 
member of the period being placed first, we carry it more 
readily in our memory as we proceed to the second, and see 
the connection of the two more clearly. Thus, to say, 
‘ When our passions have forsaken us, we flatter ourselves 
with the belief that we have forsaken them,’ is both more 
graceful and more clear, than to begin with the longest part 
of the proposition: ‘We flatter ourselves with the belief, 
that we have forsaken our passions, when they have forsaken 
us.’ In general, it is always agreeable to find a sentence 
rising upon us, and growing in its importance to the very 
last word, when this construction can be managed without 
affectation, or unseasonable pomp. ‘ If we rise yet higher/ 
says Mr. Addison, very beautifully, and consider the fixed 
stars as so many oceans of flame, that are each of them 
attended with a different set of planets ; and still discover 
new firmaments and new lights, that are sunk farther into 
those unfathomable depths of asther ; we are lost in such a 
labyrinth of worlds, and confounded with the magnificence 
and immensity of nature.’! 

A fifth rule for the strength of sentences is, to avoid con 
eluding them with an adverb, a preposition, or any incon¬ 
siderable word. Such conclusions are always enfeebling 
and degrading. There are sentences, however, where the 
stress and significancy rest, chiefly, upon words of this kind. 
In this case they are not to be considered as circumstances, 
but as the capital figures; and ought, in propriety, to have 
the principal place allotted them. No fault, for instance, can 
be found with this sentence of Bolingbroke : ‘ In their pros¬ 
perity, my friends shall never hear of me ; in their adversity, 
always where never and always, being emphatical words, 

* We must take care that our composition shall not fall off, and that a 
weaker expression shall not follow one of greater strength. 

t Spect. No. 420. 


When a sentence consists of two members, which should be placed 
first; and why 'l What constructions illustrate this remark 1 In ge¬ 
neral, what is always agreeable; and what example of it is given from 
Mr. Addison 7 W hat is the fifth rule for the strength of sentences ? 
There are sentences, however, of what sort; in this case how are they 
to be considered; and what follows % What instance is given from 
Bolingbroke ; and here of never and always , what is remarked'? 



100 STRUCTURE OF ^ect. 12 

are so placed, as to make a strong impression. But when 
those inferior parts of speech are introducedas circumstances, 
or as qualifications of more important words, they should 
invariably be disposed of in the least conspicuous parts of 
the period ; and so classed with other words of greater 
dignity, as to be kept in their proper secondary station. 

Agreeably to this rule, we should always avoid concluding 
with any of those particles, which mark the cases of nouns ; 
as of, to, from, with , by. For instance, it is much better to 
say, 4 Avarice is a crime of which wise men are often guilty,’ 
than to say, 4 Avarice is a crime which wise men are often 
guilty of.’ This kind of phraseology all correct writers 
endeavor, with the greatest care, to avoid. 

For the same reason, verbs which are used in a compound 
sense, with some of these prepositions, are likewise ungrace¬ 
ful conclusions of a period; such as bring about, lay hold 
of come over to, clear up and many others of the same 
kind : instead of which, if we can employ a simple verb, it 
always terminates the sentence with more strength. Even 
the pronoun it, especially when joined with some of the pre¬ 
positions, as, with it, in it, to it, cannot, without a violation 
of grace, be the CQnclusion of a sentence. Any phrase 
which expresses a circumstance only, always brings up the 
rear of a sentence with a bad grace. Circumstances, are, 
indeed, like unshapely stones in a building, which try the 
skill of an artist, where to place them with the least offence. 
We should carefully avoid crowding too many of them 
together, but rather intersperse them in different parts of the 
sentence, joined with the principal words on which they 
depend. Thus, for instance, when Dean Swift says, ‘What 
I had the honor of mentioning to your Lordship, some time 
ago, in conversation, was not a new thought.’* These two 
circumstances, sometime ago, and in conversation, which 
are here joined, would have been better separated thus . 

* Letter to the Earl of Oxford. 


But when should they be disposed of in the least conspicuous parts of the 
period; and should they be classed with other words '? Agreeably to this 
rule, with what should we always avoid concluding % What example is giv¬ 
en; and of this kind of phraseology, what is remarked 1 For the same reason 
what verbs are ingraceful conclusions to a period; and why 'l Of the pro¬ 
noun it, as a concluding word, what is remarked ; and of any phrase which 
expresses a circumstance only, what is observed 1 Circumstances are like 
what ; and what is farther remarked of them 1 To illustrate this remark, 
what example is given from Dean Swift; and how should the circum¬ 
stances have been placed 1 



Lect. 12.] 


SENTENCES 


101 


‘ What I had the honor, some time ago, of mentioning to your 
Lordship in conversation.’ 

The last rule which we shall mention relating to the 
strength of a sentence is, that in the members of it, where 
two things are compared or contrasted to each other ; where 
either a resemblance or an opposition is designed to be ex¬ 
pressed ; some resemblance in the language and construction 
ought to be observed. The following passage from Pope’s 
preface to his Homer, beautifully exemplifies the rule we 
are now giving. ‘ Homer was the greater genius ; Virgil, 
the better artist; m the one, we must admire the man; in 
the other, the work. Homer hurries us with a commanding 
impetuosity ; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty. 
Homer scatters with a generous profusion ; Virgil bestows 
with a careful magnificence. Homer, like the Nile, pours 
out his riches with a sudden overflow ; Virgil, like a river 
in its bank, with a constant stream. And when we look 
upon their machines, Homer seems like his own Jupiter in 
his terrors, shaking Olympus, scattering the lightnings, and 
firing the heavens; Virgil, like the same power, in his 
benevolence, counselling with the gods, laying plans for 
empires, and ordering his whole creation.’ Periods of this 
kind, when introduced with propriety, and not too frequently 
repeated, have a sensible and attractive beauty : but if such 
a construction be aimed at in all our sentences, it leads to a 
disagreeable uniformity; and produces a regular jingle in 
the period, which tires the ear, and plainly discovers affec¬ 
tation. 


What is the last rule mentioned relating to the strength of a sentence! 
Repeat the passage from Pope, which beautifully exemplifies this rule. 
When have periods of this kind a sensible beauty ; but if such a construc¬ 
tion be aimed at in all our sentences, what will be its effect 1 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Strength. 


A. Redundant words, 
a. Redundant members. 


B. Attention to the situation of 


omission of them, 
c. The copulative and. 


copulatives, relatives. &c. 

a. The splitting of particles. 

b. The multiplication and 


C. The disposition of the capital 

words in sentences, 
a. Advantages of the Greek 
and Latin languages. 

D. The proper succession of 

sentences. 

E. Sentences not to be con¬ 

cluded with adverbs, &c. 

F. Contrasted sentences. 


9* 









LECTURE XIII. 

STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES—HARMONY. 


Having hitherto treated of sentences, with respect to 
their meaning, under the heads of perspicuity, unity, and 
strength ; we shall now consider them, with respect to their 
sound, their harmony, or agreeableness to the ear. 

Sound is a quality much inferior to sense ; yet such as 
must not he disregarded. For, as long as sounds are the 
vehicle of conveyance for our ideas, there will be always a 
very considerable connection between the idea which is con¬ 
veyed, and the nature of the sound which conveys it. 
Pleasing ideas can hardly be transmitted to the mind by 
means of harsh and disagreeable sounds. The imagination 
revolts as soon as it hears them uttered. ‘ Nihil,’ says 
Quintilian, ‘ potest intrare in affectum, quod in auri, velut 
quodam vestibulo, statim offendit.’* 

In the harmony of periods, two things may be considered. 
First, agreeable sounds, or modulation in*general, with¬ 
out any particular expression : Next, the sound so ordered 
as to become expressive of the sense. The first is the more 
common ; the second the higher beauty. 

The beauty of musical construction will, evidently, de¬ 
pend upon two things—the choice of words, and the arrange¬ 
ment of them. On the choice of words there is not much 
to be said, unless we were to enter into a tedious detail of 
the powers of the several letters, or simple sounds, of which 
speech is composed. Those words are, doubtless, most 
pleasing to the ear, which are composed of smooth and 
liquid sounds, where there is a proper intermixture of vow- 

* Nothing can enter into the affections, which stumbles at the threshold 
by offending the ear. 


Under what three heads have we hitherto treated of sentences; and 
with respect to what, are we now to consider them? Of sound what is 
remarked ; and why must it not be disregarded ? Through what can 
pleasing ideas hardly be transmitted ; why ; and what says Quintilian ? 
In the harmony of periods, what two things may be considered; and what 
is observed of them? Upon what two things will the beauty of musical 
construction depend ? On the choice of words, without what detail, is 
there not much to be said ? What words are most pleasing to the ear ? 




Lect. 13.j HARMONY, &c. 103 

eh and consonants ; without too many harsh consonants 
rubbing against each other ; or too many open vowels in 
succession, to cause a hiatus, or disagreeable aperture of 
the mouth. It may always be assumed as a principle, that 
whatever sounds are difficult in pronunciation, are, in the 
same proportion, harsh and painful to the ear. Long words 
are commonly more agreeable than monosyllables. They 
please the ear by the composition, or succession of sounds 
which they present to it; and accordingly the most musical 
languages abound most in them. Of long words, those are 
the most musical, which are not wholly composed, either of 
long or short syllables, but of an intermixture of them ; such 
as repent , produce, velocity , independent , impetuosity . 

Though the words, however, which compose a sentence 
be ever so well chosen, and harmonious, yet, if they be un¬ 
skilfully arranged, its music is entirely lost. The following 
sentence from Milton’s Treatise on Education, is a remark¬ 
able instance of musical construction. * We shall conduct 
you to a hill-side, laborious, indeed, at the first ascent; but 
-else, so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects, and 
melodious sounds, on every side, that the harp of Orpheus 
was not more charming.’ Every thing in this sentence 
conspires to promote the harmony. The words are hap¬ 
pily chosen ; full of liquid and soft sounds ; laborious, 
smooth , green , goodly , melodious, charming : and these 
so artfully arranged, that were we to alter the collocation of 
any one of them, we should be immediately sensible of the 
melody suffering. For, observe, how finely the members 
of the period swell one above another. * So smooth, so 
green’—so full of goodly prospects and melodious sounds 
on every side;’—till the ear, prepared by this gradual rise, 
is conducted to that full close on which it rests with plea 
sure ;—‘ that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming.’ 

There are two things on which the music of a sentence 
chiefly depends. These are, the proper disposition of the 
several members of it; and the close or .cadence of the whole. 

First, we observe, that the distribution of the several 


What must always be assumed as a principle 1 Why do long words 
please the ear more than monosyllables; and, accordingly, what fellows'? 
Of long words which are most musical; and what examples are given 1 
Possessing what properties, may the music of a sentence stiil be lost 1 Re¬ 
peat the following sentence from Milton’s Treatise on Education. Of this 
sentence, what is remarked ; and how is this fully illustrated 1 On what 
two things does the music of a sentence chiefly depend 1 



104 HARMON Y, [Lect. 13. 

members should be carefully attended to. Whatever is easy 
and agreeable to the organs of speech, always sounds grate¬ 
ful to the ear. While a period is going on, the termination 
of each of its members forms a pause in the pronunciation ; 
and these pauses should be so distributed as to make the 
course of the breathing easy, and, at the same time, should 
fall at such distances, as to bear a certain musical propor¬ 
tion to each other. This will be best illustrated by exam¬ 
ples. The following sentence is from Archbishop Tillotson : 
4 This discourse, concerning the easiness of God’s com¬ 
mands, does, all along, suppose and acknowledge the 
difficulties of the first entrance upon a religious course; 
except only in those persons who have had the happiness to 
be trained up to religion by the easy and insensible degrees 
of a pious and virtuous education.’ This sentence is far 
from being harmonious ; owing chiefly to this—that there 
is, properly, only one pause in it, falling between the two 
members into which it is divided ; each of which is so 
long as to require a considerable stretch of the breath in 
pronouncing it. 

Observe, now, on the other hand, the ease with which the 
following sentence, from Sir William Temple glides along, 
and the graceful intervals at which the pauses are placed. 
He is speaking sarcastically of man : 4 But, God be thanked, 
his pride is greater than his ignorance, and what he wants 
in knowledge, he supplies by sufficiency. When he has 
looked about him, as far as he can, he concludes there is no 
more to be seen ; when he is at the end of his line, he is at 
the bottom of the ocean ; when he has shot his best, he is 
sure none ever did, or ever can, shoot better, or beyond him. 
His own reason he holds to be the certain measure of truth ; 
and his own knowledge, of what is possible in nature.’ 
Here, every thing is, at once, easy to the breath, and grate¬ 
ful to the ear; and it is this sort of flowing measure which 
renders Sir William Temple’s style always agreeable. It 
must, however, be observed, that if composition abounds 
with sentences which have too many pauses, and these 


How does it appear that the distribution of the several members should 
be carefully attended to 1 To illustrate this remark, what sentence is 
given from Tillotson ; what is observed of it, and why is it far from being 
harmonious 1 On the other hand, what is remarked of the following sen¬ 
tence from Sir William Temple; and of what is he speaking'? Repeat 
the passage. Here, every thing is of what character; but what must, 
however, be observed ? 




Lect. 13.] OF SENTENCES. 105 

placed at intervals too apparently measured and regular, it 
is apt to savor of affectation. 

The next thing to be attended to, is, the close or cadence 
of the whole sentence. The only important rule that can 
be given here, is, that when we aim at dignity or elevation, 
the sound should be made to grow to the last; the largest 
members of the period, and the fullest and most sonorous 
words, should be reserved to the conclusion. As an ex¬ 
ample of this, the following sentence from Mr. Addison may 
be given. ‘ It fills the mind,’ speaking of sight, ‘with the 
largest variety of ideas; converses with its objects at the 
greatest distance ; and continues the longest in action, with¬ 
out being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments.’ 
Every reader must be sensible of a beauty there, both in the 
proper division of the members and pauses, and the manner 
in which the sentence is rounded, and conducted to a full 
and harmonious close. 

The same thing holds in melody, that was observed to 
take place with respect to signification—that a falling off at 
the end of a sentence is very injurious. For this reason, 
particles, pronouns, and all little words, are as ungracious to 
the ear, at the conclusion, as they have already been shown 
to be inconsistent with strength of expression. The sense 
and sound have here a mutual influence on each other. That 
which hurts the ear, mars the strength of the meaning also; 
and that which really degrades the sense, has also a bad 
sound. An author, speaking of the Trinity, has the follow¬ 
ing disagreeable sentence. ‘It is a mystery which we 
firmly believe the truth of, and humbly adore the depth of.’ 
And how easily might it be mended by this transposition • 

‘ It is a mystery, the truth of which we firmly believe, and 
the depth of which we humbly adore.’ A musical close in 
our language seems, in general, to require, either the last 
syllable, or the last but one, to be a long syllable. Words 
that consist of short syllables only, as, contrary , particular , J 

On the close and cadence of the whole sentence, what is the only im¬ 
portant rule that can be given ! As an example of this, what sentence 
from Mr. Addison is given; and in it, of what must every reader be sen¬ 
sible ! What is equally true in melody, as in signification ; and for this 
reason, what follows ! How does it appear that the sense and sound have 
here a mutual influence on each other 1 What illustration is given from 
an author who is speaking of the Trinity ; and how might it be corrected! 
What does a musical close in our language seem to require ! Under what 
circumstances do words that consist of short syllables only, conclude a 
sentence harmoniously ! 




106 HARMONY, [Lect. 13. 

retrospect , seldom conclude a sentence harmoniously, un¬ 
less a succession of long syllables, before, has rendered 
them agreeable to the ear. 

It is necessary, however, to observe, that sentences so 
constructed as to make the sound always swell towards the 
end, and to rest on a long, or a penult long syllable, give a 
discourse the tone of declamation. If the melody he not 
varied, the ear soon becomes familiar and is clogged with it. 
To keep up the attention of the reader or hearer, and to pre¬ 
serve vivacity and strength in our composition, we must, 
therefore, he very attentive to vary on r measure. As this 
regards the distribution of the inemoers, as well as the 
cadence of the periods, sentences constructed in a similar 
manner should never follow one another. Short sentences 
should be blended with long and swelling ones, to render 
discourse sprightly, as well as magnificent. Even discord, 
abrupt sounds, and departure from regular cadence, if pro¬ 
perly introduced, have, sometimes, a good effect. 

Cicero is one of the most remarkable patterns of a har¬ 
monious style, of either ancient or modern times. His love 
of it, however, is too visible, and the pomp of his numbers 
sometimes detracts from his strength. But we may observe, 
in defence of this great orator, that there is a remarkable 
union in his style, of harmony with ease, which is always a 
great beauty; and if his harmony he studied, that study 
appears to have co^t him little trouble. 

Among our English classics, not many are distinguished 
for musical arrangement. Milton, in some of his prose 
works, has very finely turned periods; but the writers of 
his age indulged in a liberty of inversion, which would now 
he reckoned contrary to purity of style; and though this 
allowed their sentences to be more stately and sonorous, yet 
it gave them too much of Latinised construction and order. 
Of later writers, Shaftesbury, Addison, Sir William Temple, 
and Bishop Atterbury, are the most remarkable for the 
music of their periods. 


What, however, is it necessary to observe ; and why 1 To effect what, 
must we, consequently, be very attentive to our measure; and what re¬ 
mark follows 7 How should sentences be blended with each other; and 
even what, sometimes, has a good effect I Of Cicero,, in this respect, what 
is remarked ; but in defence of this great orator, what may we observe 1 
In musical arrangement, what is observed of Milton ; but in what did the 
writers of his age indulge; and of this, what is remarked 1 Of late 
writers, who are the most remarkable for the music of their periods ^ 




Lect. 13.] OF SENTENCES. 107 

Hitherto we have treated of agreeable sounds, or modu¬ 
lation in general: we now proceed to a higher beauty of this 
kind—the sound adapted to the sense. Of this we may 
remark two degrees : First, the current of sound adapted 
to the tenor of a discourse; next, a particular resemblance 
effected between some objects and the sounds that are em¬ 
ployed in describing it. 

First, the current of sound may be adapted to the tenor 
of a discourse. Sounds have, in many respects, a corres¬ 
pondence with our ideas ; partly natural, and partly the 
effect of artificial associations. Hence, any one modu¬ 
lation of sound continued, stamps upon our style, a certain 
character and expression. Sentences constructed with the 
Ciceronian fullness and swell, produce the impression of 
what is important, magnificent, and sedate: for this is the 
natural tone which such a course of sentiments assumes. 
But they suit no violent passion, no eager reasoning, no 
familiar address : these require brisker, easier, and more 
concise measures. To swell, and to let down the periods, 
therefore, as the subject demands, is a very important rule 
in oratory. It would be as ridiculous to write a familiar 
epistle, and a funeral oration, in a style of the same cadence, 
as to set the words of a tender love song to the air of a war¬ 
like march. 

But, in the next place, besides the general correspond¬ 
ence of the current of sound with the current of thought, a 
more particular expression may be attempted, of certain 
objects, by means of resembling sounds. This can be, 
sometimes, accomplished in prose compositions; but it is 
chiefly to be looked for in poetry ; where attention to sound 
is moje demanded, and where the inversions and liberties of 
poetical style give us a greater command of sound ; assisted, 
too, by the versification, and that cantus obscur ior , to which 
we are naturally led in reading poetry. 

The sounds of words may be employed for representing, 


Hitherto of what have we treated; and to what do we now proceed 7 
Of this, what two degrees may we remark 7 With what have sounds, in 
many respects, a correspondence; and hence, what follows 'l Of sentences 
constructed with the Ciceronian fullness and swell, what is observed; and 
what is a very important rule in oratory How is this remark illustrated 7 
But in the next place, what is observed 7 Where can this, sometimes, be 
accomplished; but where is it chiefly to be looked for; and why7 For 
representing what three classes of objects, may the sounds of words be 
employed 7 




108 HARMONY [Lect. 13. 

chiefly, three classes of objects: First, other sounds: 
secondly, motions; and, thirdly, the emotions and passions 
of the mind. 

First, by a proper choice of words, we may produce a 
resemblance of other sounds which we mean to describe: 
such as the noise of waters, the roaring of winds, or the * 
murmuring of streams. And it will be found, that in most 
languages, the names of many particular sounds are so 
formed, as to carry some affinity to the sound which they 
signify: as, the whistling of the wind, the buz and hum 
of insects, the hiss of serpents, the crash of falling timber ; 
and many other instances where the word has been plainly 
framed upon the sound it represents. A remarkable ex¬ 
ample of this beauty is found in Milton’s Paradise Lost, 
where, in the one passage, he describes the sound made by 
the opening of the gates of hell; and, in the other, that 
made by the opening of the gates of heaven. The contrast 
between the two, exhibits, to great advantage, the art of the 
poet. The first is the opening of hell’s gates : 

- s -On a sudden, open fly 

With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound, 

Th’ infernal doors; and on their hinges grate 
Harsh thunder.- 

Observe, now, the smoothness of the other: 

—— --Heaven opened wide 

Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound, 

On golden hinges turning.- 

The second class of objects, which the sound of word's is 
often employed to imitate, is motion; as it is swift or slow, 
violent or gentle, easy, or accompanied with effort. Though 
there is no natural affinity between sound and motion, yet, 
in the imagination there is a striking one, as is evident from 
the connection between music and dancing. The poet can, 
consequently, give us a lively idea of the kind of motion 
he would describe, by the help of sounds, which correspond, 
in our imagination, with that motion. Long syllables 

First, by a proper choice of words, what resemblance may we produce; 
and what examples are given 'l And in most languages what will be 
found ; and what are instances 7 Where is a remarkable instance of this 
beauty to be found; and what is observed of it 1 Repeat the passages. 
What is the second class of objects which the sound of words, is often em¬ 
ployed to imitate; and of this, what is observed ? How can the poet, con¬ 
sequently, give us a lively idea of the kind of motion he would describe ■ 
and what illustrations follow 1 









Lect. 13.] OF SENTENCES. 109 

naturally give the impression of slow motion; as in the 
following line of Virgil : 

Olli inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt. 

A succession of short syllables present quick motion to 
the mind: as, 

Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatitungula campum. 

The works of Homer and Virgil abound with beauties of 
this kind ; hut as they are so often quoted, and so well 
known, it is unnecessary to produce them here. 

The third set of objects, capable of being represented by 
the sound of words, are the emotions and passions of the 
mind. Between sense and sound there appears, at first view, 
to be no natural resemblance ; but if the arrangement of 
syllables, by the sound alone, calls forth one set of ideas 
more readily than another, and disposes the mind to enter 
into that affection which the poet intends to raise, such 
arrangement may, with propriety, be said to resemble the 
sense, or be similar and correspondent to it. Thus, when 
pleasure, joy, and agreeable objects, are described by one 
who sensibly feels his subject, the language naturally runs 
into smooth, liquid, and flowing numbers; hut brisk and 
lively sensations require the numbers to be quicker and more 
animated. 

Melancholy and gloomy subjects, naturally express them¬ 
selves in slow measures, and long words : as, 

In those deep solitudes and awful cells, 

Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwells. 

Abundant instances of this kind will be suggested by a 
moderate acquaintance with the good poets, either ancient 
or modern. 

Whose works abound with beauties of this kind; but why is it not 
necessary to produce them here % What is the third set of objects capable 
of being represented by the sounds of words ; and under this head, what 
observations are made 'l Thus, from the descriptions of pleasure, joy, &c., 
how is this illustrated 1 How do melancholy and gloomy subjects naturally 
express themselves ; and what example is given % What remark fellows'? 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Sounds independent of the sense. 

A. The choice of words. 

B. The arrangement of words 

and sentences. 

a. The distribution of the 

members of a sentence. 

b. The close of a sentence. 

2. Sounds adapted to the sense. 


A. Adapted to the tenor of a 

discourse. 

B. Adapted to the objects 

described. 

a. Other sounds. 

b. Motion. 

c. Emotions and passions. 


10 







LECTURE XIV. 

ORIGIN AND NATURE OF FIGURATIVE 
LANGUAGE. 

Having finished what related to the construction of sen 
tences, we proceed to other rules concerning style. Ou 
general division of the qualities of style, was into perspi 
cuity and ornament. Perspicuity, both in single words and 
phrases, has been considered. Ornament, so far as it arises 
from a graceful, strong and melodious construction of words, 
has also been treated of. Another, and a great branch oi 
the ornament of style, is figurative language ; to the dis¬ 
cussion of which we now proceed. 

Figures, in general, always imply some departure from 
simplicity of expression; the idea which we intend to con 
vey, not only enunciated to others, but enunciated in a 
particular manner, and with some circumstance added, which 
is designed to render the impression stronger and more 
vivid. When we say, for instance, ‘ That a good man 
enjoys comfort in the midst of adversity we just express 
our thought in the simplest manner possible. But when 
we say, 4 To the upright there arises light in darkness;’ 
the same sentiment is expressed in a figurative style ; a new 
circumstance is introduced ; light is put in the place of 
comfort, and darkness is used to suggest the idea of adver¬ 
sity. But, though figures imply a deviation from what may 
be considered the most simple form of speech, we are not 
thence to conclude, that they imply any thing uncommon 
or unnatural. This is so far from being the case, that, on 
many occasions, they are both the most natural, and the 
most common method of uttering our sentiments. It is im¬ 
possible to compose any discourse without using them often ; 


Having finished what related to the construction of sentences, to what 
do we now proceed I What was our general division of the qualities of 
style; and how far have they been, respectively considered 1 What is 
another branch of the ornament of style 1 What do figures, in general, 
always - imply 1 What instance of illustration is given; and what is re¬ 
marked of it I But, though figures imply a deviation from the most sim¬ 
ple form of speech, what are we not thence to conclude ; and why 1 How 
is this illustrated I 



Lect. 14.] ORIGIN AND NATURE, &c. Ill 

indeed there are few sentences of any length, in which 
some expression or other, that may be termed a figure, does 
not occur. That which has drawn the attention of critics 
and rhetoricians so much to these forms of speech, is, that 
in them they remarked much of the beauty and the force of 
language to consist; and found them always to bear some 
characters, or distinguishing marks, by the help of which 
they could reduce them under separate classes and heads. 
To this circumstance, perhaps, they owe the name of 
figures. 

Figures may he defined to be that language which is 
prompted either by the imagination, or by the passions. 
They are generally divided, by rhetoricians, into two great 
classes—figures of words, and figures of thought. The 
former are commonly called tropes, and consist in a word’s 
being employed to signify something that is different from 
its original meaning ; so that, if the word be altered, the 
figure is destroyed. Thus, in the instance before given; 

‘ Light ariseth to the upright in darkness.’ Here the trope 
consists in ‘ light and darkness,’ not being taken literally, 
but intended to express comfort and adversity ; to which con¬ 
ditions of life they are supposed to bear some analogy or 
resemblance. The other class, called figures of thought, 
supposes the words to be used literally, and the figure to 
consist in the sentiment only ; as is the case in exclamations, 
interrogations, apostrophes, and comparisons; where, 
though the words be varied, or translated from one language 
into another, the same figure is, notwithstanding, still pre¬ 
served. This distinction is, however, of small importance, 
since practice cannot be assisted by it; nor is it, in itself, 
always very clear. 

The first cause of the invention of tropes, was the barren¬ 
ness of language. The operations of the mind, and of the 
affections, in particular, are, in most languages, described 
by words taken from sensible objects. The reason of this 


What, then, has drawn the attention of critics and rhetoricians so much 
to these forms of speech; and to this circumstance what do they owe ] 
How may figures be defined; and how are they generally divided 1 What 
are the former commonly called ; and in what do they consist 'l What 
illustration follows 1 What does the other class suppose ; as is the case in 
what; and of them, what is remarked 1 Why, however, is this distinction 
of small importance 1 What was the first cause of the invention of 
tropes'? How are the operations »f the mind, and affections, m most lan¬ 
guages, described ; and what is the reason of this 'l 




112 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [Lect. 14. 

is manifest: the names of sensible objects were, in all lan¬ 
guages, the words earliest introduced ; and were, by degrees, 
extended to those mental objects, of which men had more 
obscure conceptions, and to which they found it more difficult 
to assign distinct names. They borrowed, therefore, the 
name of some sensible idea, where their imagination found 
an affinity. Thus, we speak of a piercing judgment, and 
a clear head ; a soft or a hard heart; a rough or a s?nooth 
behavior. We speak, also, of being inflamed by anger, 
warmed by love ; swelled with pride, melted into grief; and 
these are almost the only significant words which we have 
for such ideas. 

But, though the barrenness of language he one cause of the 
invention of tropes, yet it is not the only source of this form 
of speech. Tropes have arisen more frequently from the 
influence which imagination possesses over language. The 
imagination never contemplates any one idea as single and 
alone, but as accompanied by other idea&, which may he 
considered as its accessaries. These accessaries often affect 
the imagination more than the principal idea itself. They 
are, perhaps, in their nature more agreeable, or more 
familiar to our conceptions ; or remind us of a greater 
variety of important circumstances. Hence the name of 
the accessary or correspondent idea is employed, although 
the principal has a proper and well known name of its own. 
Thus, for example, when we design to intimate the period 
at which a state enjoyed most reputation and glory, we 
might easily employ the proper words for expressing this : 
bin>as, in our imagination, this is readily connected with the 
flourishing period of a plant or tree, we prefer this corres¬ 
pondent idea, and say, ‘ The Roman Empire flourished 
most under Augustus.’ The leader of a faction is plain 
language; hut because the head is the principal part of the 
human body, and is supposed to direct all the animal 
operations, we figuratively say, ‘ Catiline was the head of 
the party.’ The word voice , was originally invented to 
signify the articulate sound, formed by the organs of the 
mouth ; hut, as by means of it, men signify their ideas and 


What did they, therefore, borrow ; and what examples are given 1 Be¬ 
sides from the barrenness of language, from what, also, have tropes arisen 'l 
How does the imagination always contemplate ideas; and how do these 
accessaries often affect it f What is farther observed of them 7 Hence 
what follows; and what examples of illustration are given f How is this 
farther illustrated from the word voice ? 




Lect. 14.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 113 

.heir intentions to each other, voice soon assumed many 
other meanings, all derived from this primary effect. Thus 
we speak of iistenmg to the voice, of conscience, the voice 
of nature, and the voice of Goc 

From what has been said, the reason wny all languages 
are most figurative m their early state, is man ife&„. Language 
is tnen most Darren : the stock of proper names is small; 
and, at the same time, imagination exerts great influence 
over the conceptions of men, and their method of uttering 
them; so that botn from necessity and from choice, their 
speech will, at that period, abound in tropes: for the savage 
tribes of men are always much given to wonder and astonish¬ 
ment. Every new object surprises, terrifies, and makes a 
strong impression on their mind ; they are governed by 
imagination and passion, more than by reason; and, con¬ 
sequently, their speech must be deeply tinctured by their 
genius. But as language gradually advances towards 
refinement, almost every object comes to have a proper name 
given to it, and perspicuity and precision are more stu¬ 
died. 

We will now proceed to show, why tropes or figures con 
tribute to the beauty and grace of style. 

In the first place, they enrich language, and render it 
more copious. Hence words and phrases are multiplied 
for expressing all sorts of ideas; for describing even the 
most minute differences—the most delicate shades and colors 
of thoughts ; which, by proper words alone, could not pos¬ 
sibly be expressed. 

Secondly, they bestow dignity upon style ; which, by the 
familiarity of common expressions, is degraded. Figurative 
language, when properly employed, has the same effect 
upon an elevated subject, that rich and splendid apparel has 
upon a person of rank and dignity : they adapt the language 
to the tone of the subject. Assistance of this kind is often 
requisite in prose compositions; and in poetry, it is indis¬ 
pensable. To say 4 the sun rises,’ is trite and common; 


From what has been said, what is manifest; and why is this the case 1 
As the savage tribes of men are always much given to wonder and as¬ 
tonishment, what follows 1 But when are perspicuity and precision more 
studied'? To show what shall we now proceed'? In the first place, what 
is their effect; and hence words and phrases are multiplied for what pur¬ 
pose I In the second place, how do they improve style; and how is vhis 
illustrated ! Where is assistance of this kind often requisite; and wlave, 
indispensable! What illustration of this remark follows! 

10 * 




114 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [Lect. 14. 

but, in the language of Thomson, it becomes a magnificent 
image: 

But yonder comes the powerful king of day, 

Rejoicing in the east. 

In the third place, figures give us the pleasure of enjoy¬ 
ing two objects presented together to our view, without con¬ 
fusion—the principal idea, together with the accessary, 
which gives it the figurative appearance. We see one thing 
in another, as Aristotle expresses it, which is always agree¬ 
able to the mind. When, for instance, in place of ‘ youth’ 
we say ‘ the morning of life,’ the fancy is immediately 
entertained with all the resembling circumstances which 
these two objects bear to each other. At the same instant, 
we behold a certain period of human life, and a certain 
time of the day, so connected with each other, that the 
imagination plays between them with pleasure, and contem¬ 
plates two similar objects in one view, without confusion. 

In the fourth place, figures afford a clearer and more 
striking view of the principal object, than could be had of it 
were it expressed in simple terms, and divested of its 
accessary idea. They exhibit the object on which they are 
employed, in a picturesque form; they can render an 
abstract conception, in some degree, an object of sense; 
they surround it with such circumstances, as enable the 
mind to lay hold of it steadily, and to contemplate it fully. 

‘ Those persons,’ says Burke, ‘who gain the hearts of 
most people, who are chosen as the companions of their softer 
hours, and their reliefs from anxiety and care, are seldom 
persons of shining qualities, or strong virtues : it is rather 
the soft green of the soul, on which we rest our eyes, that 
are fatigued with more glaring objects.’* Here, by a happy 
allusion to a color, the whole conception is conveyed clear 
and strong to the mind in one word. By a well chosen 
figure, conviction even, is assisted, and the impression of a 
truth upon the mind made more lively and forcible than it 

* Treatise on the Sublime and Beautiful. 


In the third place, figures give us the pleasure of enjoying what; and what 
remark follows ? From the word youth, and the phrase, the morning of life , 
now is this illustrated ? In the fourth place, what is their effect; and how is 
this remark illustrated"? What beautiful example is given from Mr. 
Burke ; and what is remarked of it ? By a well chosen figure, what effect 
is produced upon conviction; and what illustration is given from Dr. 
Young"? 





Lect. 14.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 115 

would otherwise he. Thus, in the following passage of Dr. 
Young: ‘ When we dip too deep in pleasure, we always 
stir a sediment that renders it impure and noxious.’ An 
image that presents so much resemblance between a moral 
and a sensible idea, seems like an argument from analogy, 
to enforce what the author asserts, and to produce conviction. 

Whether we desire to raise sentiments of pleasure or 
aversion, we can always heighten the emotion by the figures 
which we introduce; leading the imagination to a train, 
either of agreeable or disagreeable, of exalting or debasing 
ideas, correspondent to the impression which we seek to 
make. When we wish to render an object beautiful, or 
magnificent, we borrow images from all the most beautiful 
or splendid scenes of nature; we thereby naturally throw 
a lustre over our object; we enliven the reader’s mind, and 
dispose him to go along with us, in the gay and pleasing im¬ 
pressions which we give him of the subject. 

Having thus explained the origin, the nature, and the 
effects of tropes, we shall next proceed to the several kinds 
and divisions of them. All, however, that is proposed in 
this lecture is to give, in a few words, a general view of the 
several sources whence the tropical meaning of words is 
derived: after which we shall, in subsequent lectures, de¬ 
scend to a more particular consideration of some of the most 
important of them, and such as are in most frequent use; 
in treating of which, we shall endeavor to give all the 
instruction that may be necessary, concerning the proper 
employment of figurative language, and point out the errors 
and abuses which are apt to be committed in this part of 
style. 

All tropes being founded on the relation which one object 
bears to another, the name of the one can be substituted for 
that of the other ; and by this means, the vivacity of the idea 
is generally intended to be increased. Of these relations, 
the relation between a cause and its effect, is one of the first 

What is the effect of such an image as is here presented'? 
Whether we desire to raise sentiments of pleasure or aversion, how can 
we always heighten the emotion by the figures which we introduce; 
and how is this illustrated'? Having thus explained the origin, the 
nature, and the effect of tropes, to what shall we next proceed ? What, 
only, however, is proposed in this lecture; after which, in subsequent 
lectures what shall be done'? As all tropes are founded on the relation 
which one object bears to another, what follows; and by this means what 
is intended to be increased \ Of these relations, which is one of the fi-st 
and most obvious 7 



116 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [Lect. 14 

and most obvious. Hence, in figurative language, the cause 
is put for the effect. Thus, Mr. Addison, writing of Italy, 
says : 

Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers, together rise, 

And the whole year in gay confusion lies. 

Here the 4 whole year,’ is plainly intended to signify the 
effects or productions of all the seasons of the year. The 
effect is also often put for the cause; as 4 gray hairs’ for 
4 old age,’ which produces gray hairs; and 4 shade,’ for 
4 trees,’ which cause the shade. The relation which subsists 
between the container and the thing contained, is, also, so 
intimate and obvious, as naturally to give rise to tropes : 

-Ule impiger hausit 

Spumantem pateram, et pleno se proluit auro; 


Where every one sees that the cup and the gold are put for 
the liquor that was contained in the golden cup. In the 
same manner, the name of a country is often used to denote 
the inhabitants of that country; and to pray for the assist¬ 
ance of Heaven, is the same as to pray for the assistance of 
God, who is supposed to reside in heaven. The relation 
between a sign and the thing signified, is another source of 
tropes. Hence, 

Cedant arma togae ; concedat laurea linguae. 

The 4 toga’ being the badge of the civil professions, and the 
4 laurel’ of military honors, the badge of each is put for the 
civil and military characters themselves. To 4 assume the 
sceptre,’ is a common phrase for enteringon royal authority. 
To tropes, founded on these several relations of cause and 
effect, container and contained, sign and thing signified, is 
1 given the name Metonymy. 

When the trope is founded on the relation between an 
antecedent and a consequent, it is called a Metalepsis; as 
when the Romans used to say, 4 fuit,’ or 4 vixit,’ to signify 

Hence what follows ; and what example is given 'l Here ‘ the whole year,’ 
is intended to signify what 1 What instances are mentioned in which the 
effect is put for the cause 1 Of the relation between the container and 
the thing contained, what is remarked ; what example is given, and what 
is observed of it"? What is another source of tropes; what is the exam¬ 
ple ; and what is remarked of it % 'What other examples of tropes of the 
same kind are mentioned; and to all these what general name is given 1 
When is a trope called a metalepsis; and what is the example 'l 





Lect. 14.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 117 

that one was dead. ‘ Fuit Ilium et ingens gloria Darda- 
nidum,’ signifies, that the glory of Troy is now no more. 

When the whole is put for a part, or a part for the whole ; 
a genus for a species, or a species for a genus ; the singular 
number for the plural, or the plural for the singular; in 
general, when any thing more, or any thing less, is put for 
the precise object meant, the figure is then called a Synec¬ 
doche. It is very common, for instance, to say, ‘ a fleet of 
so many sail,’ in the place of ‘ ships or to use the ‘ head’ 
for the ‘person,’ the ‘pole’ for the ‘earth,’ the ‘waves,’ 
for the ‘ sea.’ In the same manner an attribute may be put 
for a subject; and ‘ youth and beauty,’ for ‘ the young and 
beautiful;’ and sometimes, a subject for its attribute. But 
it is unnecessary to insist longer on this enumeration 
Enough has been said to give an opening into that great 
variety of relations between objects, by means of which, the 
mind is assisted to pass easily from one to another ; and 
understands, by the name of the one, the other to be meant. 
But the relation of similitude and resemblance, which is far 
the most fruitful in tropes, is yet to be mentioned. On this 
is founded what is called the metaphor; when, instead of 
using the proper name of any object, we employ, in its place, 
the name of some other, which is like it; which is a sort of 
picture of it, and which thereby awakens the conception of 
it with more force or grace. This, therefore, shall be fully 
considered in the next lecture. 


When is the figure called a Synecdoche; and what instances are men¬ 
tioned 'l In the same manner what may be done; but why is it unne¬ 
cessary to insist longer on this enumeration 'l But what relation is yet 
to be mentioned; on this is formed what figure; and what is remarked 
of it 'l 


ANALYSIS. 


1. General remarks. 

2. Definitions of figures. 

A. Figures of words. 

B. Figures of thought. 

3. Origin of figures. 

A. The influence of the imagi¬ 
nation over language. 

4. Languages most figurative at 

their origin. 

5. The advantages of figures. 

A. They enrich language. 


B. They render it more digni¬ 

fied. 

C. They present the principal 

object with its accessary. 

D. They render our views more 

distinct. 

6. Different kinds of figures. 

A. Metonymy. 

B. Metalepsis. 

C. Synecdoche. 







LECTURE XV. 


METAPHOR. 

From the preliminary observations made, concerning 
figurative language in general, we now proceed to treat 
separately of such figures of speech, as occur most fre¬ 
quently, and require particular attention. The first to be 
discussed is the metaphor. This figure is founded entirely 
on the resemblance which one object bears to another. Hence 
it is closely allied to simile or comparison, and differs only 
from it in being expressed in an abridged form. When wc 
say of a great minister, ‘ that he upholds the state, like a 
pillar which supports the weight of a whole edifice,’ we 
evidently make a comparison ; but when we say of such a 
minister, ‘ that he is the pillar of the state,’ it becomes a 
metaphor. The comparison betwixt the minister and a pil¬ 
lar is made in the mind ; but is expressed without any of the 
words that denote comparison. The comparison is only 
insinuated, not expressed: the one object is supposed to be 
so like the other, that without formally drawing the com¬ 
parison, the name of the one may be put in the place of the 
name of the other. * The minister is the pillar of the state.’ 
This, therefore, is a more lively and animated manner of 
expressing the resemblances which the imagination traces 
among objects. 

Of all the figures of speech, none approaches so near to 
painting, as the metaphor. Its peculiar effect is to give light 
and strength to description; to make intellectual ideas, in 
some degree, visible to the eye, by giving them color, and 
substance, and sensible qualities. To produce this effect, 
however, a delicate hand is required; for, by a very little 
inaccuracy, we are in danger of introducing confusion, 
instead of promoting perspicuity. Several rules, therefore, 


From the preliminary observations made concerning figurative language 
in general, of what do we now proceed to treat ? Which is the first to be 
discussed; on what is it founded; and hence what follows ? How is this 
illustrated 1 Of the comparison between the pillar and the minister, what 
is farther observed ? To what does this figure approach ; and what is its 
peculiar effect'! To produce this effect, however, what is requisite ; and 
why? 



Lect. 15.] * METAPHOR. 119 

are necessary for the proper management of metaphors. 
But, before we enter upon these, it may be proper to give 
one instance of a very beautiful metaphor, that the figure 
may appear to full advantage. The instance is taken from 
Lord Bolingbroke’s remarks on the History of England. 
Just at the conclusion of his work, speaking of the behavior 
of Charles I. to his last parliament, he says, ‘ In a wrnrd, 
about a month after their meeting, he dissolved them ; and, 
as soon as he had dissolved them he repented; hut he re¬ 
pented too late of his rashness. Well might he repent; for 
the vessel was now full, and this last drop made the waters 
of bitterness to overflow.’ ‘ Here,’ he adds, ‘we draw the 
curtain, and put an end to our remarks.’ Nothing could he 
more happily thrown off. The' metaphor is continued 
through several expressions. The vessel is put for the 
state, or temper of the nation, already full, that is, provoked 
to the highest degree, by former oppressions and wrongs ; 
this last drop stands for the provocation recently received 
by the abrupt dissolution of the parliament; and the over¬ 
flowing of the waters of bitterness , forcibly expresses all 
the effects of resentment, let loose by an exasperated people 
Proceeding, now, to the rules to be observed in the proper 
management of metaphors, the first one to be mentioned is, 
that they be suited to the nature of the subject of which we 
treat; neither too numerous, nor too gay, nor too elevated for 
it; that we neither attempt to force the subject, by means of 
them, into a degree of elevation which is not congruous to 
it; nor, on the other hand, allow it to sink below its proper 
dignity. Some metaphors are beautiful in poetry, which 
would be absurd and unnatural in prose; some may be 
graceful in orations, which would be very improper in his¬ 
torical or philosophical compositions. Figures, it must be 
remembered, are the dress of our sentiments : and as there 
is a natural congruity between dress, and the character, or 
rank, of the person who wears it, a violation of which con¬ 
gruity never fails to be unpleasing ; the same is true in the 


Before we enter upon the rules for the management of this figure, what 
is proposed to be done ; and why 'l Whence is the instance taken ; and 
what is it I Of this metaphor what is remarked ; and how is this illus¬ 
trated 'l In the proper management of the metaphor, what is the first 
rule to be observed ? Of the proper appropriation of metaphors to different 
kinds of composition, what is remarked 1 As figures are the dress of our 
sentiments, what follows; and to what must they, therefore, be carefully 
adapted 1 



120 METAPHOR. * [Lect. 15. 

application of figures to sentiment. They should, therefore, 
be carefully adapted to the character of the style which they 
are intended to adorn. 

The second rule given, respects the choice of objects 
whence metaphors are to be drawn. The field of figurative 
language is very wide. All nature opens its stores to us, 
and allows us to gather, from all sensible objects, whatever 
can illustrate intellectual or moral ideas. Not only the gay 
and splendid objects of sense, but the grave, the terrifying, 
and even the gloomy and dismal, may, on different occasions, 
be introduced into figures with propriety. But care must 
be taken not to use such allusions as raise in the mind dis¬ 
agreeable, mean, or low ideas. Even when metaphors are 
chosen in order to vilify and degrade an object, an author 
should study never to be low or vulgar in his allusions. 
Dean Swift’s treatise on the Art of Sinking, contains a full 
and humorous collection of instances of this kind, wherein 
authors, instead of exalting, have contrived to degrade their 
subjects by the figures they employed. Indeed, authors of 
distinction sometimes fall into this error. Shakspeare, 
whose imagination was more remarkable for its richness and 
boldness, than for its delicacy, often fails here. The follow¬ 
ing, for example, is a gross transgression. In his Henry V., 
having mentioned a dunghill, he immediately raises a 
metaphor from the steam of it; and on a subject too that 
naturally led to much nobler ideas : 

And those that leave their valiant bones in France, 

Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, 

They shall be fam’d; for there the sun shall greet them, 

And draw their honors reeking up to heaven. 

In the third place, particular care should be taken that the 
resemblance, which is the foundation of the metaphor, be 
clear and perspicuous; not far fetched, nor difficult to be 
discovered. The transgression of this rule forms, what are 
called harsh, or forced metaphors, which are always dis¬ 
pleasing, because they puzzle the reader, and, instead of 


What does the second rule given, respect 7 Of the extent of the field of 
figurative language, what is remarked; and what illustration of this re¬ 
mark follows 7 But about what must care be taken 7 What work con¬ 
tains a humorous collection of instances of this kind ; and what is remarked 
of them 7 Authors of what character sometimes fall into this error ; and 
what instance is given illustrative of this remark 7 In the third place, 
about what should particular care be taken 7 What does the transgression 
of this rule form ; and why are they always displeasing 7 



Lect. 15.] METAPHOR. 121 

illustrating the thought, render it perplexed and intricate. 
With metaphors of this kind, Cowley, and some other wri¬ 
ters of his age, abound. How forced and obscure, for in¬ 
stance, are the following verses of the former, in which he is 
sneaking of his mistress: 

Wo to her stubborn heart, if onee mine come 
Into the selfsame room, 

Twill tear and blow up all within, 

Like a grenado, shot into a magazine. 

Then shall love keep the ashes and torn parts 
Of both our broken hearts ; 

Shall out of both one new one make; 

From her’s th’ alloy, from mine the metal take; 

For of her heart, he from the flames will find 
But little left behind; 

Mine only, will remain entire; 

No dross was there to perish in the fire. 

Metaphors borrowed from any of the sciences, especially 
such of them as belong to particular professions, are, by 
their obscurity, always faulty. 

In the fourth place, we must be careful never to jumble 
metaphorical and plain language together; never to con¬ 
struct a period in such a manner, that part of it is to be 
understood metaphorically, and part, literally. This always 
produces a most disagreeable confusion. Instances of the 
violation of this rule are frequent, even in good authors. 
In Mr. Pope’s translation of the Odyssey, Penelope, bewail¬ 
ing the abrupt departure of her son Telemachus, is made to 
speak thus: 

Long to my joys my dearest lord is lost, 

His country’s buckler, and the Grecian boast, 

Now from my fond embrace by tempests torn, 

Our other column of the state is borne, 

Nor took a kind adieu, nor sought consent. 

Here, in one line, her son is figured as a column ; and in the 
next, he returns to a person, to whom it belongs to take adieu, 
and to ask consent. This is inconsistent. The poet should 
either have kept himself to tiie idea of man in the literal 
sense; or, if he figured him by a column, he should have 


Who abound with metaphors of this kind; and from the former, what 
example is given 7 What metaphors are, by their obscurity, always 
faulty 1 In the fourth place, about what must we be careful; and what 
does ihis always produce 7 Where are instances of the violation of this 
rule frequent; and what example is given from Mr. Pope’s translation of 
the Odyssey 'l Of this passage, what is remarked; and what should the 
poet have done- 7 



122 METAPHOR. [Lect. 15. 

ascribed nothing' to him hut what belonged to it. He was 
not at liberty to ascribe to that column the actions and pro¬ 
perties of a man. Such unnatural mixtures render the 
image indistinct; leaving it to waver, in our conceptions, 
between the figurative and the literal sense. 

Though the works of Ossian abound with beautiful and 
correct metaphors, yet they afford one instance of the fault 
we are now censuring. 4 Trothal went forth with the 
stream of his people, but they met a rock ; for Fingal stood 
unmoved : broken they rolled back from his side. Nor did 
they roll in safety; the spear of the king pursued their 
flight.’ The metaphor, at the beginning, is exceedingly 
beautiful. The 4 stream,’ the 4 unmoved rock,’ the 4 waves 
rolling back broken,’ are expressions agreeable to the pro¬ 
per and consistent language of figure; but, in the conclusion, 
when we are told, 4 they did not roll in safety, because the 
spear of the king pursued their flight,’ the literal meaning 
is injudiciously mixed with the metaphor ; they are, at the 
same moment, represented as waves that roll , and as men 
that may be 'pursued and wounded with a spear. 

In the fifth place, we must be careful not to make two 
different metaphors meet on the same ohject. This is what 
is called mixed metaphor, and is one of the grossest abuses 
of this figure. Shakspeare’s expression, for example, 4 to 
take up arms against a sea of troubles,’ makes a most un¬ 
natural medley, and entirely confounds the imagination. 
Quintilian has carefully guarded us against it. 4 We must 
be particularly attentive,’ says he, 4 to end with what we 
have begun. Some, when they begin the figure with a 
tempest, conclude it with a conflagration ; which forms a 
shameful inconsistency.’ Observe, for instance, what an 
inconsistent group of objects is brought together by Shak- 
speare, in the following passage of the Tempest; speaking 
of persons recovering their judgment after the enchantment 
which held them was dissolved : 

-The charm dissolves apace, 

And as the morning steals upon the night, 

To do what, was he not at liberty; and of such unnatural mixtures, 
what is remarked 1 What is observed of the works of Ossian; yet of 
what do they afford one instance ? What is it; and what is remarked of 
it'? In the fifth place, about what must we be careful 1 What is this 
called; and what is said of it ? What is remarked of Shakspeare’s ex¬ 
pression, ‘ To take up arms against a sea of troubleand what says 
Quintilian on this subject? What passage is here introduced from 
Shakspeare’s Tempest; and what is observed of it ?. 




Lect. 15.] METAPHOR. 133 

Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
Their clearer reason. 

So many ill sorted things are here joined, that the mind can 
see nothing clearly—the morning stealing upon the dark¬ 
ness, and at the same time, melting it—the senses of men 
chasing fumes , ignorant fumes , and fumes that mantle. 

More correct writers than Shakspeare, sometimes fall 
into this error of mixing metaphors. It is surprising that 
the following should have escaped Mr. Addison, in his letter 
from Italy: 

I bridle in my struggling muse with pain, 

That longs to launch into a holder strain. 

The muse, figured as a horse, may be bridled; but when 
we speak of launching , we make it a ship ; and by no force 
of imagination, can it be supposed both a horse and a ship 
at the same time— bridled to hinder it from launching. 
The same author, in one of his numbers in the Spectator, 
says, 4 There is not a single view of human nature, which 
is not sufficient to extinguish the seeds of pride.’ Nothing 
could be more incoherent than the things here joined 
together ; making 4 a view extinguish, and extinguish seeds.’ 

It is a good rule for examining the propriety of metaphors, 
when we doubt whether or not they are of the mixed kind, 
to try to form a picture upon them, and consider how the 
parts would agree, and what sort of figure the whole would 
present, when delineated with a pencil. By this means, we 
should become sensible, whether inconsistent circumstances 
were mixed, and a monstrous image thereby produced ; or 
whether the object was, all along, presented in one natural 
and consistent point of view. 

Metaphors, in the sixth place, should not be crowded 
together on the same object. Though each of the meta¬ 
phors be preserved distinct, yet, if they be heaped on one 
another, they produce confusion. The following lines from 
Francis’ translation of Horace, will exemplify this remark : 

Of warm commotions, wrathful jars, 

The growing seeds of civil wars; 


That more correct writers than Shakspeare, sometimes fall into this 
error, what evidence is given; and on this passage, what remarks are 
made'? What says the same author in one of his numbers of the Specta¬ 
tor ; and what is observed of it ? What rule is given for examining the 
propriety of metaphors; and by this means, of what should we become 
sensible'? Of metaphors in the sixth place, what is remarked; and why 
should not this be done h What lines will exemplify this remark 1 



124 METAPHOR. [Lect. 15 

Of double fortune’s cruel games, 

The spacious means, the private aims, 

And fatal friendships of the guilty great, 

Alas! how fatal to the Roman state! 

Of mighty legions late subdu’d, 

And arms with Latian blood embru’d; 

Yet unatoned, a labor vast! 

Doubtful the die, and dire the cast! 

You treat adventurous, and incautious tread, 

On fires with faithless embers overspread. 

This passage, though highly poetical, is, still, harsh and 
obscure ; owing to this cause only, that three distinct meta- 
phors are crowded together to describe the difficulty of 
Pollio’s writing a history of the civil wars. The mind 
finds it difficult to pass through so many different views, 
given in quick succession, of the same object. 

The seventh, and last rule, which we shall suggest con¬ 
cerning metaphors, is, that they be not too far pursued. If 
the resemblance on which the figure is founded, he long 
dwelt upon, and carried into all its minute circumstances, 
we produce an allegory instead of a metaphor ; we tire the 
reader, who soon becomes weary of this play of fancy ; and 
we render our discourse obscure. This is called straining 
a metaphor. Cowley deals in this to excess ; and to this 
error is owing, in a great measure, that intricacy and harsh¬ 
ness, in his figurative language, which was before noticed 
Dr. Young, also, often violates this rule. The merit, how¬ 
ever, of this writer, in figurative language, is great, and 
deserves to be remarked. No writer, ancient or modern, 
had a stronger imagination than Dr. Young, or one more 
fertile in figures of every kind. His metaphors are often 
new, and often natural and beautiful. But his imagination 
was strong and rich, rather than delicate and correct. 
Hence, in the style of his Night Thoughts, much obscurity 
and hardness are observed. Thus, speaking of old age, he 
says, it should 

Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore 
Of that vast ocean, it must sail so soon; 


Though this passage is highly poetical, yet why is it still harsh and 
obscure; and what remark follows 7 What is the last rule suggested con¬ 
cerning metaphors; and if the resemblance, be long dwelt upon, what 
will be the consequence 7 What is this called; and what results from the 
frequent use of it, in Cowley’s metaphors 7 What eminent poet often 
violates this rule; yet of his merit in figurative language, what is ob¬ 
served 7 Of his imagination, what is remarked ; and hence, in the style 
of his Night Thoughts, what is observed 7 Thus, speaking of old age, 
what does he say ; and of this passage what is remarked ? 





Lect. 15.] ALLEGORY. 125 

And put good works on board; and wait the wind 
That shortly blows us into worlds unknown. 

The first two lines are extremely beautiful; but when he 
continues the metaphor, ‘ to putting good'works on board, 
and waiting the wind,’ it becomes strained, and sinks in 
dignity. Of all the English authors, no one, perhaps, is so 
happy in his metaphors as Mr. Addison. His imagination 
was neither so rich nor so strong as Dr. Young’s ; but it 
was far more chaste and delicate. Perspicuity, natural 
grace and ease, always distinguish his figures. They are 
neither harsh nor strained : they never appear to have been 
studied or sought after ; but seem to rise, of their own 
accord, from the subject, and constantly embellish it. 

Having treated thus fully of the metaphor, we shall con 
elude this lecture with a few remarks concerning the 
allegory. 

An allegory may be regarded as a continued metaphor; 
as it is the representation of some one thing by another that 
resembles it,and that is made to stand for it. As a fine 
example of this figure, we may take the following pas¬ 
sage from the 80th Psalm; where the people of Israel 
are represented under the image of a vine, and the figure 
ts supported throughout with great correctness and 
beauty. ‘ Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt, thou 
hast cast out the heathen and planted it. Thou pre- 
paredst room before it, and didst cause it to take deep root, 
and it filled the land. The hills were covered with the 
shadow of it; and the boughs thereof were like the goodly 
cedars. She sent out her boughs into the sea, and her 
branches into the river. Why hast thou broken down her 
v hedges, so that all they which pass by the way do pluck her ! 
The boar out of the wood doth waste it; and the wild beast 
of the field doth devour it. Return, we beseech thee, O 
God of hosts, look down from Heaven, and behold, and 
visit this vine !’ Here there is no circumstance, except, per¬ 
haps, one phrase at the beginning, ‘ thou hast cast out the 
heathen,’ that does not strictly agree to a vine, whilst, at 


Of all the English authors, who was the most happy in his metaphors; 
and of his imagination, and his figures, what is farther observed'? 
Having treated thus fully of the metaphor, with what is this lecture con¬ 
cluded 'l How may an allegory be regarded; and why 'l Where is a 
fine example of this figure found ; and what is it 'l Here, of all the cir¬ 
cumstances, what is remarked; and what is the principal requisite in the 
conduct of an allegory 1 


11 * 





126 ALLEGORY. [Lect. 15. 

the same time, the whole graduates happily with the Jewish 
state represented by this figure. This is the first and prin¬ 
cipal requisite in the conduct of an allegory, that the figu¬ 
rative and the literal meaning be not mixed inconsistently 
together. 

The same rules that were given for metaphors, may he 
applied to allegories also, on account of the affinity that 
subsists between them. The only material difference, 
besides the one being short, and the other prolonged, is, 
that a metaphor always explains itself by the words that are 
connected with it, in their proper and natural signification: 
As when we say, ‘ Achilles was a lion ‘ an able minister 
is the pillar of the state.’ The lion and the pillar are here 
sufficiently interpreted by the mention of Achilles and the 
minister, which are joined to them ; but an allegory may be 
allowed to stand less connected with the literal meaning; 
the interpretation not being so plainly pointed out, but left 
to our own reflection. 


Why may the same rules that were given for metaphors, be applied to 
allegories I What is the only material difference between them h How 
is this remark illustrated 'l , 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Metaphor. 

A. The difference between it 

and the comparison. 

B. Its approximation to paint- 

ing. 

C. Rules for conducting meta¬ 

phors. 

a. To be suited to the subject. 

b. To be drawn for suitable 

objects. 

C. The resemblance to be 
clear and perspicuous. 


d. Metaphorical and plain 

language not to be jum¬ 
bled together. 

e. Two metaphors not to 

meet on the same objects. 

f. Different metaphors not to 

be crowded together. 

g. Metaphors not to be too 

far pursued. 

2. Allegory. 

A. Its nature illustrated. 








LECTURE XVI. 


HYPERBOLE—PERSONIFICATION—APOS- 
. TROPHE. 

The next figure of which we are to treat, is hyperbole, 
■or exaggeration. It consists in magnifying an object be¬ 
yond its natural bounds. It occurs very frequently in all 
languages, and forms a part of common conversation: as 
swift as the wind; as white as snow; and the like: and 
our usual forms of compliment, are, in general, only ex¬ 
travagant hyperboles. If any thing is remarkably good 
or great in its kind, we are instantly ready to add to it some 
exaggerating epithet; and to make it the best we ever saw. 
The imagination has always a tendency to gratify itself, by 
magnifying its present object, and carrying it to excess. 
This hyperbolical turn will prevail in language, in propor¬ 
tion to the liveliness of imagination of the people who speak 
it. Hence, young persons always deal much in hyperboles. 
Hence, too, the language of the orientals was far more 
hyperbolical than that of the Europeans, who are of more 
phlegmatic, or, perhaps, of more correct imaginations. 

The exaggerated expressions to which our ears are accus¬ 
tomed in conversation, scarcely strike us as hyperboles. 
We immediately make the proper abatement, and under¬ 
stand them according to their just value. But when there 
is something striking or unusual in the form of a hyperboli¬ 
cal expression, it then rises into a figure of speech which 
draws our attention: and here it is necessary to observe, 
that, unless the reader’s imagination be in such a state as 
disposes it to rise and swell along with the hyperbolical 
expression, he is always offended by it. For a sort of dis¬ 
agreeable force is put upon him ; he is required to strain 
and exert his fancy, when he feels no inclination to make 


Of what figure are we next to treat; and in what does it consist 1 
Where does it frequently occur; what does it form, and what examples 
are given 1 If any tiling is remarkably good or great, to what are we 
inclined; and why 1 In proportion to what will this hyperbolical turn 
prevail; and hence what follows I What scarcely strike us as hyperboles; 
and why 2 But when does is rise into a figure of speech; and here what 
is necessary to observe; and why 2 




128 HYPERBOLE. [Lect. 16 

any such effort. Hence the hyperbole is a figure of difficult 
management; and ought not to be frequently used, or 
dwelt upon long. 

Hyperboles are of two kinds ; either such as are employed 
in description, or such as are suggested by the warmth of 
passion. Those are by far the best, which are the effect of 
passion : for if the imagination has a tendency to magnify 
its objects beyond their natural proportion, passion possesses 
this tendency in a vastly stronger degree; and, therefore, 
not only excuses the most daring figures, but very often 
renders them natural and just. Hence, the following senti¬ 
ments of Satan in Milton, as strongly as they are described, 
contain nothing but what is natural and proper ; exhibiting 
the picture of a mind agitated with rage and despair 

Me, miserable! which way shall I fly 
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ? 

Which way I fly is hell, myself am hell; 

And in the lowest depth, a lower deep 
Still threat’ning to devour me, opens wide, 

To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. 

In simple description, hyperboles must be used with 
greater caution, and require more preparation in order to 
make the mind relish them. When a poet is describing an 
earthquake or a storm ; or when our imagination carries 
us into the midst of a battle, we can bear strong hyperboles 
without displeasure. But when only a woman in grief is 
presented to our view, it is impossible not to be disgusted 
with such wild exaggeration as the following, in one of our 
dramatic poets: 


---I found her on the floor 

In all the storm of grief, yet beautiful; 

Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, 

That were the world on fire, they might have drowned 

The wrath of Heaven, and quench’d the mighty ruin. Lee. 

This is mere bombast. The person herself who was 
under the distracting agitations of grief, might be permitted 
to hyperbolize strongly; hut the spectator describing her, 


Hence, of the hyperbole, what is farther remarked 1 Hyperboles are 
of what two kinds 1 Which are the best; and why 1 Hence, of the fol¬ 
lowing sentiments of Satan, what is observed'? Repeat the passage. 
Where must hyperboles be used with greater caution ; and what do they 
then require 'l When can we bear strong hjqoerboles without displeasure ; 
but when do we become disgusted 1 Repeat the example. Of this pas¬ 
sage what is remarked 'l 





Lect. 16.] PERSONIFICATION. 129 

cannot be allowed an equal liberty; for the one is supposed 
to utter the language of passion, the other speaks the lan¬ 
guage of description only—which is always according to 
the dictates of nature, on a lower tone. The exact boundary 
of this figure cannot be ascertained by any precise rule. 
Good sense- and accurate taste must determine the point, 
beyond which, if we pass, we become extravagant. 

Of figures, which lie altogether in the thought, where the 
words are taken in their common and literal sense, the first 
place is due to personification, or that figure by which we 
attribute life and action to inanimate objects. 

The use of this figure is very extensive, and its foundation 
is laid deep in human nature. At first view, and when con¬ 
sidered abstractly, it would appear to be a figure of the 
utmost boldness, and to border on the extravagant and 
ridiculous. For what can seem more remote from the tract 
of reasonable thought, than to speak of stones and trees, and 
fields and rivers, as if they were living creatures, and to 
attribute to them thought and sensation, affections and 
actions. In fact, however, the case is very different. A1 
poetry, even in its most gentle and humble forms, abounds 
with it. From prose, and, indeed, even from common con¬ 
versation, it is far from being excluded. When we say, the 
ground thirsts for rain, or the earth smiles with plenty ; or 
when we speak of ambition as restless , or a disease as 
deceitful , such expressions show the facility with which the 
mind accommodates the properties of living creatures to 
things that are inanimate, or to abstract conceptions of our 
own forming. 

There is, indeed, a wonderful proneness in human nature 
to animate all objects. Let a man by an unwary step sprain 
his ancle, or hurt his foot upon a stone, and in the ruffled, 
discomposed moment, he will sometimes feel disposed to 
break the stone in pieces, and to utter passionate exclama¬ 
tions against it, as if it had done him an injury. If one has 
been long accustomed to a certain set of objects, which have 

Of the exact boundary of this figure, what is observed; and what must 
determine the point ? Of figures which lie altogether in the thought, to 
what is the first place due? Of the use of this figure what is remarked; 
and where is its foundation laid ? At first view how would it appear; and 
why ? How does it appear that, in fact, the case is quite different ? What 
examples of illustration are given ; and what is remarked of them ? How 
does it appear that there is a wonderful proneness in human nature to 
animate all objects ? Prom a certain set of particular objects, how is this 
remark farther illustrated ? 



130 PERSONIFICATION. [Lect. 16. 

made a strong impression upon his imagination; as a house 
where he has passed many agreeable years ; or fields, and 
trees, and mountains, among which he has often walked 
with the greatest delight; when he is obliged to part with 
them, especially if he has no prospect of ever seeing them 
again, he can scarcely avoid having somewhat of the same 
feeling as when he is leaving old friends. They seem 
endowed with life; they become objects of his affections ; 
and in the moment of parting, it scarcely seems absurd to 
him, to give vent to his feelings in words, and to take a 
formal adieu. 

There are three different degrees of this figure; which 
it is requisite to remark and distinguish, in order to de¬ 
termine the propriety of its use. The first is, when some 
of the properties or qualities of living creatures are ascribed 
to inanimate objects; the second, when those inanimate 
objects are described as acting like such as have life ; and 
the third, when they are represented either as speaking to 
us, or as listening to what we say to them. 

The first and lowest degree of this figure, which consists 
in communicating to inanimate objects some of the qualities 
of living creatures, raises the style so little, that the humblest 
discourse will admit it without any force. Thus a ‘ raging 
storm, a deceitful disease, a cruel disaster,’ are familiar and 
simple expressions. This, indeed, is so obscure a degree 
of personification, that it might, perhaps, with propriety, be 
classed with those plain metaphors that almost escape our 
observation. 

The second degree of this figure is, when we introduce 
i inanimate objects acting like those that have life. Here w^e 
rise a step higher, and the personification becomes sensible. 
According to the nature of the action which we ascribe to 
those inanimate objects, and the particularity with which we 
describe it, is the strength of the figure. When pursued to 
any length, it belongs to labored harangues ; when slightly 
touched, it may be admitted into less elevated compositions. 
Cicero, for instance, speaking of the cases where killing a 

How many different degrees of this figure are there; and why must 
they be distinguished 'l What are they 'l Of the first and lowest degree 
of this figure, what is observed 'l What examples are given; and what 
remark follows 1 What is observed of the second degree of this figure; 
and according to what is the strength of it 'l When does it belong to 
labored harangues; and what is observed of it when slightly touched 'l What 
illustration of this is given from Cicero; and what is remarked of it 'l 




Lect. 16.] PERSONIFICATION. 131 

man is lawful in self-defence, uses the following* words : 
‘ Aliquando nobis gladius ad occidendum hominem ad ipsis 
porrigitur legibus.’* Here the laws are beautifully per¬ 
sonified, as stretching forth their hand to give us a sword 
for putting a man to death. 

In poetry, personifications of this kind are extremely fre¬ 
quent, and are, indeed, the life and soul of it. In the 
descriptions of a poet who has a lively fancy, every thing 
becomes animated. Homer, the father of poetry, is re¬ 
markable for the use of this figure. War, peace, darts, 
rivers, every thing, in short, is alive in his writings. In 
this particular, Milton and Shakspeare resemble him. No 
personification, in any author, is more striking, or intro¬ 
duced more appropriately, than the following of Milton, 
upon Eve’s eating the forbidden fruit: 

So saying, her rash hand, in evil hour, 

Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate ; 

Earth felt the wound ; and nature from her seat 

Sighing, through all her works, gave signs of wo 

That all was lost. B. ix. 1, 780. 

All the circumstances and ages of men—poverty, riches, 
youth, old age—all the dispositions and passions—melancho¬ 
ly, love, grief, contentment, are capable of being personified 
in poetry, with great propriety. Of this we meet with frequent 
examples in Milton’s Allegro and Penseroso, Parnell’s 
Hymn to Contentment, and Thomson’s Seasons: nor, 
indeed, is it easy, in poetic compositions, to set any bounds 
to personifications of this kind. 

The third and highest degree of this figure remains to be 
mentioned—when inanimate objects are introduced, not only 
as feeling and acting, hut as speaking to us, or hearing and 
attending when we address ourselves to them. This, though 
on several occasions far from being unnatural, is, plainly, 
the boldest of all rhetorical figures: it is the style of strong 

f jassion only ; and, therefore, never to be attempted, un- 
ess when the mind is considerably heated and agitated. 

* Orat. pro Milone. 


Where are personifications of this kind extremely frequent; and there 
what is observed of them 'l Of Homer, Milton, and Shakspeare, what is 
remarked; and from Milton, what illustration is given 7 All of what are 
capable of being personified in poetry with great propriety ; and of this, 
where do we meet with frequent examples 'l What is the third and 
highest degree of this figure; and what is observed of it 7 



m PERSONIFICATION. [Lect. 16 

A slight personification of some inanimate thing, acting as 
if it had life, can be relished by the mind, in the midst of 
cool description, and when its ideas are going on in the 
ordinary train. But it must be in a state of violent emotion, 
and have departed considerably from its common track of 
thought, before it can so far realize the personification of an 
insensible object, as to conceive it listening to what we say, 
or making any return to us. All strong passions, however, 
have a tendency to use this figure; not only love, anger, 
and indignation, but even those which are seemingly more 
dispiriting, such as grief, remorse, and melancholy. Milton 
affords us an extremely fine example, in that moving and 
tender address which Eve makes to Paradise, just before she 
is compelled to leave it. 

Oh ! unexpected stroke, worse than of death! 

Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ! thus leave 
Thee, native soil, these happy walks, and shades, 

Fit haunt of gods! where I had hope to spend 
Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day, 

Which must be mortal to us both. O flowers! 

That never will in other climate grow, 

My early visitation and my last 

At even, which I bred up with tender hand, 

From your first opening buds, and gave you names ! 

Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank 

Your tribes, and water from th’ ambrosial fount 1 B. xi. 1. 268. 

This is altogether the language of nature, and of female 
passion. As all plaintive passions are peculiarly prone to the 
use of this figure, it should be remarked, that there are fre¬ 
quent examples, not in poetry only, but in real life, of persons 
when just about to suffer death, taking a passionate farewell 
of the sun, moon, and stars, or other sensible objects around 
them. 

In the management of this sort of personification, two 
rules are to be observed. First, never to attempt it unless 
prompted by strong passion, and never to continue it when 
the passion begins to flag. The second rule is, never to 


When can a slight personification of some inanimate thing be relished ; 
but to what state must the mind be brought, before it can realize the per¬ 
sonification of an inanimate object, so as to listen and answer to what we 
say I What passions have a tendency to use this figure; and what ex¬ 
amples are given 'l In what does Milton afford us an extremely fine 
example ; and what is it 'l Of this passage what is remarked '? As all 
plaintive passions are peculiarly prone to the use of this figure, what 
should be remarked 1 In the management of this sort of personification, 
what two rules are to be observed 1 




Lect. 16.] APOSTROPHE. 133 

personify any object which has not some dignity in itself, 
and which is incapable of making a proper figure in the 
elevation to which we raise it. To address the remains of 
a deceased friend, is natural ; but to address the clothes 
which he wore, introduces low and degrading ideas. So, 
also, addressing the several parts of one’s body as if they 
were animated, is not congruous to the dignity of passion. 
For this reason, the following passage in Mr. Pope’s Eloisa 
to Abelard, must be condemned: 

Dear fatal name ! rest ever unrevealed, 

Nor pass the«e lips in holy silence sealed. 

Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, 

Where, mixed with God’s, his loved idea lies; 

Oh! write it not, my hand!—his name appears 
Already written :—Blot it out, my tears. 

Here the name of Abelard is first personified; which, as 
the name of a person often stands for the person himself, 
is exposed to no objection. Next, Eloisa personifies her 
own heart; and as the heart is a dignified part of the human 
frame, and is often put for the mind or affections, this also 
may pass without censure. But when she addresses her 
hand, and tells it not to write his name, this is strained and 
unnatural. Yet the figure becomes still worse, when she 
exhorts her tears to blot out what her hand had written. 
There is, indeed, in the last two lines, an air of epigram¬ 
matic conceit, which native passion never suggests ; and 
which is altogether unsuitable to the tenderness which 
breathes through the rest of that inimitable poem. 

Apostrophe is a figure so similar to personification, that it 
will require but little discussion. It is an address to a real 
person, but one who is either absent or dead, as if he were 
present and listening to us. It is so nearly allied to an ad¬ 
dress to inanimate objects personified, that both these figures 
are sometimes called apostrophes. The proper apostrophe 
is, however, in boldness, one degree lower than the address 
to personified objects ; for it certainly requires a less effort 
of imagination to suppose persons present who are dead or 
absent, than to animate insensible beings, and direct our 

To address what is natural ; but what introduces low and degrading 
ideas 'l So also, what is not congruous with the dignity of passion ; and 
for this reason, what passage must be condemned 1 On this passage, 
what remarks follow 1 Of the last two lines, what is observed 'l Of apos¬ 
trophe what is remarked; and what is it h Why, however, is the proper 
apostrophe, in boldness, one degree lower than the address to personified 
objects ) 


12 




134 APOSTROPHE. [Lect. 16 

discourse to them. Both figures are subject to the same 
rule of being prompted by passion, in order to render them 
natural; for both are the language of passion or strong 
emotion only. The poems of Ossian abound with the most 
beautiful instances of this figure. ‘ Weep on the rocks of 
roaring winds, O maid of Inistore ! Bend thy fair head over 
the waves, thou fairer than the ghost of the hills, when it 
moves in a sunbeam at noon over the silence of Morven ! 
He is fallen ! thy youth is lone ; pale beneath the sword of 
Cuchullin.’ 

For such bold figures of discourse as strong personifica¬ 
tions, addresses to personified objects, and apostrophes, the 
glowing imagination of the ancient oriental nations was 
particularly fitted. Hence, in the sacred scriptures, we 
find some very remarkable instances : 1 2 * 4 O thou sword of 

the Lord ! how long will it be ere thou be quiet ? put thyself 
up in thy scabbard ; rest, and be still! How can it be quiet, 
seeing the Lord hath given it a charge against Ashkelon, 
and against the sea-shore 1 there he hath appointed it.’ 
There is a passage in the fourteenth chapter of Isaiah, 
where the prophet is describing the fall of the Assyrian 
empire, which contains a greater assemblage of sublime 
ideas, of bold and daring figures, than is, perhaps, any 
where else to be met with. In it every object is animated ; 
a variety of personages is introduced: we hear the Jews, 
the fir-trees, and the cedars of Lebanon, the ghosts of de¬ 
parted kings, the king of Babylon himself, and those who 
look upon his body, all speaking in their order, and acting 
their different parts without confusion. 


To what are both figures subject; and why? Whose poems abound 
with the most beautiful instances of this figure; and what example is 
given ? For these bold figures what was particularly fitted ; and hence 
what follows % What instance is given ; and of the passage in the four¬ 
teenth chapter of Isaiah, what is remarked ? 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Hyperbole. 

A. The different kinds of hy¬ 
perboles. 

a. Those suggested by passion. 

b. Those employed in de¬ 

scription. 

2. Personification. 

A. The different degrees of this 

figure. 


a. The first degree. 

b. The second degree. 

c. The third degree. 

B. Rules for the management of 
personification. 

3. Apostrophe. 

A. Examples. 








LECTURE XVII. 

COMPARISON, ANTITHESIS, INTERROGATION, 
EXCLAMATION, AND OTHER FIGURES 
OF SPEECH. 

Comparison or simile, is a figure frequently employed, 
both in poetry and prose. In a former lecture, the differ¬ 
ence betwixt it and metaphor was fully explained A 
metaphor is a comparison implied, hut not expressed as such ; 
as when we say, ‘ Achilles is a lion,’ meaning that he 
resembles one in courage or strength. A comparison is 
when the resemblance between two objects is expressed in 
form, and generally pursued more fully than the nature of a 
metaphor admits ; as when we say, 4 The actions of princes 
are like those great rivers, the course of which every one 
beholds, but their springs have been seen by few This 
short instance will show, that a happy comparison is a kind . 
of sparkling ornament, which adds lustre and beauty to 
writing. 

All comparisons may be comprenended under two heads— 
explaining and embellishing comparisons. For when a 
writer likens the object of which he treats to any other 
thing, it always is, or always should be with a view, either 
to make us understand that object more distinctly, or to 
r ender it more nleasmg All manner of subjects, even the 
most aDStract reasoning, admits of explaining comparisons. 
For instance, the distinction between the powers of sense 
and imagination m the numan mind, are, m Mr. Harris’s 
Hermes, illustratea Dy a simile, in the following manner : 

• As wax,' says he, 4 wouid not be adequate to the purpose 
pf signature, if it had not the power to retain as well as to 
receive the imnression. the same holds of the soul, with 
respect to sense and imagination. Sense is its receptive 
power ; imagination its retentive. Had it sense without 


Where is comparison or simile frequently employed 1 What is the dif¬ 
ference between it and metapnor: and what are illustrative examples of 
each 'l What will this snort instance snow ? Under wnat two heads 
may all comparisons be comprehended: and why I How extensively 
may comparisons be applied; and what example of illustration is given 
from Mr. Harris’s Hermes I 



136 COMPARISON. [Lect. 17 - 

imagination, it would not be as wax, but as water ; where, 
though all impressions be instantly made, yet as soon as they 
are made, they are instantly lost.’ In comparisons of this 
kind, the understanding is much more concerned than the 
fancy ; and, therefore, the only rules to be observed with 
respect to them, are, that they be clear and useful—that they 
tend to render our conception of the principal object more 
distinct—and that they do not lead our view aside, and be¬ 
wilder it with any false light. 

But embellishing comparisons, introduced not so much 
with a view to inform and instruct, as to adorn the subject 
of which we treat, are those with which we are chiefly con¬ 
cerned at present; and those, indeed, which most frequently 
occur. Resemblance, as was before observed, is the foun¬ 
dation of this figure. We must not, however, take resem 
blance in too strict a sense, for actual similitude or likeness 
of appearance. Two objects may raise a train of similar 
or concordant ideas in the mind, though they resemble each 
other, strictly speaking, in nothing. For example, to 
describe the nature of soft and melancholy music, Ossian 
says, ‘ The music of Carryl was like the memory of joys 
that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul.’ This is 
happy and delicate; yet no kind of music bears any resem¬ 
blance to a feeling of the mind, such as the memory of past 
joys. Had it been compared to the voice of the nightingale, 
or the murmur of the stream, as it would have 'been by an 
ordinary poet, the likeness would have been more strict; but, 
by founding his simile upon the effect which Carryl’s music 
produced, the poet, while he conveys a very tender image, 
gives us, at the same time, a much stronger impression of 
the nature and strain of that music. 

The rules to be given concerning comparisons, respect 
chiefly two articles—the propriety of their introduction, and 
the nature of the objects whence they are to be taken. In 
the first place, from what has already been said, it is mani- 


In comparisons of this kind, which is most concerned, the understand¬ 
ing or the fancy ; and, therefore, what are the only rules to be observed 
with respect to them 'l But with what comparisons are we now chiefly 
concerned; and what is observed of them 'l What is the foundation oi 
this figure ; yet why must it not be taken in too strict a sense for actual 
similitude 1 How is this illustrated from Ossian; and of this passage 
what is observed 'l By what comparison would the likeness have been 
more strict; but what follows % What two articles do the rules given con¬ 
cerning comparisons, respect 'l In the first place, from what has already 
been said what is manifest; and why 1 





Lect. 17.] COMPARISON. 137 

fest that they are not the language of strong passion ; hut of 
an imagination, sprightly, indeed, and warmed, though un¬ 
disturbed by any violent or agitating emotion. Strong 
passion is too severe to admit this play of fancy. It has no 
time to seek for resembling objects; it dwells upon that 
object which has seized and taken possession of the soul. 
An author, therefore, can scarcely commit a greater fault, 
than in the midst of passion to introduce a simile. Our 
writers of tragedies often err in this respect. Thus Mr. 
Addison, in his Cato, makes Portius, just after Lucia had 
bid him farewell for ever, and when he should naturally 
have been represented in the most violent anguish, express 
himself in a studied and affected comparison. 

Tlius o’er the dying lamp th’ unsteady flame 
Hangs quiv’ring on a point, leaps off by fits, 

And falls again, as loth to quit its hold. 

Thou must not go; my soul still hovers o’er thee, 

And can’t get loose. 

Every one must be sensible, that this is quite remote from 
the language of nature on such occasions. 

Though comparison be not the language of strong pas¬ 
sion, so neither, when' designed as an embellishment, is it 
the language of a mind totally unmoved. Being a figure 
of dignity, it always requires some elevation in the subject 
to make it proper. It supposes the imagination to be un¬ 
commonly enlivened, though the heart be not agitated by 
passion. The language of simile seems to lie between the 
highly pathetic and the very humble style, at an equal dis¬ 
tance from each. It is, however, a sparkling ornament; 
and must, consequently, dazzle and fatigue, if it recur too 
often. Similes should, even in poetry, be employed with 
moderation; but in prose, much more ; otherwise the style 
will become disagreeably florid, and the ornament lose its 
beauty and effect. 

We shall next proceed to the rules that relate to objects 
whence comparisons should be drawn ; supposing them 
introduced in their proper place. 


What, therefore, is one of the greatest faults an author can commit; 
who often err in this respect, and what illustration is given 1 In this pas¬ 
sage, of what must every one be sensible 1 Though comparison be not 
the style of strong passion, so what follows 'l Being a figure of dignity, 
What does it always require; and what does it suppose I Where does the 
language of simile seem to lie; but of it what remark follows % Of the 
employment of similes in poetry, and in prose, what is remarked; and 
why 1 To what do we next proceed 1 



138 COMPARISON. [Eect. 17 

In the first place, they must not he drawn from things 
which have too intimate and obvious a resemblance to the 
object with which they are compared. The pleasure which 
we receive from the act of comparing, arises from the dis¬ 
covery of likenesses among things of different species, 
where we should not, at first sight, expect a resemblance. 
Thus, when Milton compares Satan’s appearance after his 
fall, to that of the sun suffering an eclipse, and frightening 
the nations with portentous darkness, we are struck with 
the happiness and the dignity of the similitude. But when 
he compares Eve’s bower in Paradise, to the arbor of Po¬ 
mona, we receive little entertainment; as every one sees that 
one arbor must, of course, in several respects, resemble 
another. 

But in the second place, as comparisons ought not to be 
founded on likenesses too obvious, much less ought they to 
he founded on those which are too faint and distant. These, 
instead of assisting, strain the fancy to comprehend them, 
and throw no light upon the subject. It is also to be ob¬ 
served, that a comparison, which, in the principal circum¬ 
stances, carries a sufficiently near resemblance, may become 
unnatural and obscure, if extended too far. Nothing is 
more opposite to the design of this figure, than to seek after 
a great number of coincidences in minute points, merely to 
show how far the poet’s wit can stretch the resemblance. 

In the third place, the object from which a comparison is 
drawn, should never be an unknown object* or one of which 
few people can form clear ideas. Similes, therefore, founded 
on philosophical discoveries, or on any thing with which 
persons of a particular trade only, or a particular profession, 
are acquainted, produce not their proper ' effect. They 
should be drawn from those illustrious and noted objects, 
which the generality of readers have either seen, or can 
strongly conceive. This leads us to observe that, though 
lions, and wolves, and serpents, were fruitful, and very 
proper sources of similes among the ancients, yet, in adopt- 


What is the first rule given 'l Whence does the pleasure which we re¬ 
ceive from the act of comparing arise; and from Milton, how is this 
remark illustrated 1 In the second place, on what should not comparisons 
be founded; and why I What is also to be observed; and what is 
altogether opposed to the design of this figure 1 In the third place, wha 
is observed of the object from which a comparison is to be drawn; and 
what similes, therefore, produce not the proper effect I From what objects 
should they be drawn • and what does this lead us to observe 1 




Lect. 17.] ANTITHESIS. 139 

ing them, the moderns are very injudicious; as the pro¬ 
priety of them is now, in a great measure, lost. With many 
of them we are acquainted only at second hand, and by 
description; and to most readers of poetry, it were better to 
describe lions or serpents, by similes taken from men, than 
to describe men by lions. 

In the fourth place, we must observe, that in compositions 
of a grave or elevated kind, similes should never be taken 
from low or mean objects. These have a tendency to de¬ 
grade and vilify : whereas similes are generally intended to 
dignify and embellish; and, therefore, unless in burlesque 
writings, or where an object is meant to be diminished, 
mean ideas should never he submitted to our observation. 
We must remember, however, that many similes, drawn 
from the incidents of rural life, which appear low to us, had 
abundance of dignity in the simpler ages of antiquity. 

Having considered metaphor, hyperbole, personification, 
apostrophe, and comparison, we nOw pass to antithesis. 

Antithesis is founded on the contrast or opposition of two 
objects. By contrast, objects opposed to each other always 
appear in a stronger light. Beauty, for instance, never 
appears so charming as when contrasted with ugliness and 
deformity. Antithesis, therefore, may, on many occasions, 
be employed advantageously, to strengthen the impression 
which we propose that any object should make. Thus 
Cicero, in his defence of Milo, representing the improba¬ 
bility of Milo’s attempting to take away the life of Clodius, 
when every thing was unfavorable to such a design, after he 
had omitted many opportunities of effecting such a purpose, 
heightens our conviction of this improbability, by a judicious 
use of this figure : 4 Is it credible that, when he declined 
putting Clodius to death with the consent of all, he would 
choose to do it with the disapprobation of many ? Can you 
believe that the person whom he scrupled to slay, when he 
might have done so with full justice, in a convenient place, 
at a proper time, with secure impunity, he made no scruple 
to murder against justice, in an unfavorable place, at an un- 


In the fourth place, of similes in compositions of an elevated kind, what 
is remarked 'l What tendency have these ; and, therefore, what follows ] 
What must we, however, remember 'l From comparison, to what figure 
do we pass ; and on what is it founded 'l By contrast what effect is pro¬ 
duced : and what illustration follows 7 Antithesis, therefore, may he ad¬ 
vantageously employed for what purpose ; and how is this fully illustrated 
from Cicero’s defence of Milo 'l 



140 INTERROGATION. [Lect. 17 

seasonable time, and at the risk of capital condemnation V 
Here the antithesis is rendered complete, by the words and 
members of the sentence, expressing the contrasted objects, 
being similarly constructed, and made to correspond to each 
other. 

At the same time, it must be observed, that the frequent 
use of antithesis, especially where the opposition in the 
words is nice and quaint, is apt to render style unpleasing. 
A maxim, or moral saying, very properly receives this 
form; both, because it is supposed to be the effect of medi¬ 
tation, and is designed to be engraven on the memory, 
which recals it more easily, by the aid of such contrasted 
expressions. But where a number of such sentences suc¬ 
ceed each other ; when this becomes an author’s favorite and 
prevailing mode of expression, his style is faulty and ex¬ 
posed to censure. 

Interrogations and exclamations, to which we now proceed, 
are passionate figures. They are, indeed, on so many occa¬ 
sions, the native language of passion, that their use is ex¬ 
tremely frequent; and in ordinary conversation, when we 
are heated, they prevail as much as in the most sublime 
oratory. The literal use of interrogation, is to ask a ques¬ 
tion ; but when men are prompted by passion, whatever they 
would affirm or deny with great earnestness, they naturally 
put in the form of a question ; expressing thereby the firmest 
confidence of the truth of their own opinion ; and appealing 
to their hearers for the impossibility of the contrary. Thus, 
in scripture : ‘ God is not a man, that he should lie ; neither 
the son of man, that he should repent. Hath he said it, and 
shall he not do it ? Hath he spoken it, and shall he not 
make it good V 

Interrogation may often be applied with propriety, when 
the emotions are no higher than those which naturally arise 
from close reasoning; but exclamations belong to stronger 
emotions of the mind only—to surprise, anger, joy, grief, 
and the like. These being natural signs of a moved and 

Here, in what manner is the antithesis rendered complete 'l At the 
same time, of the frequent use of this figure, what is remarked 'l Why does 
a maxim, or moral saying, very properly receive this form ; but when does 
an author’s style become faulty'? Of interrogations and exclamations 
what is observed j What is the literal use of interrogation ; but when 
prompted by passion how is it used ; and thereby doing what "? What ex¬ 
ample of this is given from scripture 1 When, also, may interrogations 
often be applied with propriety; but to what do exclamations belong 1 Of 
these, in their proper application, what is observed; but what has°a very 
bad effect ? 




Lect. 17.] VISION. 141 

agitated mind, always, when they are properly employed, 
make us sympathize with those who use them, and enter 
into their feelings. Nothing, however, has a worse effect 
than the frequent and unseasonable use of exclamations. 
Young, inexperienced writers suppose, that by pouring 
them forth plenteously, they render their compositions 
warm and animated. But quite the contrary is the case : 
they render them frigid to excess. When an author is 
always calling upon us to enter into transports which he has 
said nothing to inspire, he excites our disgust and indig¬ 
nation. He raises no sympathy ; for he gives us no passion 
of his own, in which we can take part. 

Another figure of speech, fit for animated compositions 
only, is what some critical writers call vision ; when, instead 
of relating something that is past, we use the present tense, 
and describe it as if passing immediately before' our eyes. 
Thus Cicero, in his fourth oration against Cataline : ‘ I 
seem to myself to behold this city, the ornament of the earth, 
and the capital of all nations, suddenly involved in one con¬ 
flagration. I see before me the slaughtered heaps of 
citizens lying unburied in the midst of their ruined country. 
The ferocious countenance of Cethegus rises to my view, 
while with a savage joy he is triumphing in your miseries.’ 
This manner of description supposes a sort of enthusiasm 
which carries the person who describes it, in some measure, 
out of himself; and, when well executed, it has great 
beauty. But to execute it with success requires an unu¬ 
sually warm imagination, and so happy a selection of cir¬ 
cumstances, as shall make us think we see, before our eyes, 
the scene that is described. Otherwise it shares the same 
fate with all feeble attempts towards passionate figures—that 
of throwing ridicule upon the author, and leaving the reader 
more cool and uninterested than he was before. 

The last figure which we shall mention, and which is of 
frequent use, especially at the bar, is called climax. It con¬ 
sists in an artful exaggeration of all the circumstances of 
some object or action which we wish to place in a strong 
light. It operates by a gradual rise of one circumstance 


What do young, inexperienced writers suppose; but, on the contrary, 
when does an author excite our disgust; and why does he raise no sym¬ 
pathy 'l What is vision; and what example of it is given from Cicero I 
What does this manner of description suppose; but what does to ex¬ 
ecute it with success, require 1 If this be not the case, what fate will it 
share 1 In what does climax consist; and how does it operate I 




142 CLIMAX. [Lect. 1?. 

above another, till our idea be raised to the highest pitch. 
A common example of this figure is that noted passage in 
Cicero, which every school-boy knows : ‘It is a crime to 
put a Roman citizen in bonds ; it is tbe height of guilt to 
scourge him ; little less than parricide to put him to death. 
What name then shall I give to crucifying him V Another 
famous instance is from a pleading of a celebrated Scotch 
lawyer, Sir George M‘Kenzie. It is in a charge to a jury, 
in the case of a woman who was accused of murdering her 
own child. ‘ Gentlemen, if one man had any how slain 
another ; if an adversary had killed his opposer, or a woman 
occasioned the death of her enemy ; oven these criminals 
would have been capitally punished by the Cornelian law : 
but, if this guiltless infant, who could make no enemy, had 
been murdered by its own nurse, what punishments would 
not then the mother have demanded ? With what cries and 
exclamations would she have stunned your ears ? What 
shall we say then, when a woman, guilty of homicide, a 
mother, of the murder of her innocent child, hath com¬ 
prised all these misdeeds, in one single crime—a crime, in 
its own nature, detestable ; in a woman) prodigious ; in a 
mother, incredible; and perpetrated against one whose age 
called for compassion, whose near relation claimed affection,, 
and whose innocence deserved the highest favor?’ Such 
regular climaxes, however, though they have great beauty, 
at the same time have the appearance of art and study ; and 
consequently, though they may be admitted into formal 
harangues, yet, they are not the language of passion, 
which seldom proceeds by such regular and measured steps. 


What passage from Cicero affords a common example of this figure 1 
What othef famous instance is given ; and what is it 'l Of such regular 
'•limaxes, however, what is remarked; and what consequence follows % 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Comparison. 

A. Explaining comparisons. 

B. Embellishing comparisons 

C. Rules concerning compari¬ 

sons. 

a. The resemblance not to be 

obvious. 

b. The likeness not to be too 

remote. 


c. Compaiisons not to be 

drawn from unknown 
objects. 

d. Not to be taken from low 

or mean objects. 

2. Antithesis. 

3. Interrogation—exclamation. 

4. Vision. 

5. Climax. 








LECTURE XVIII. 

• 

FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE—GENERAL CHA¬ 
RACTERS OF STYLE—DIFFUSE, CONCISE, 
FEEBLE, NERVOUS, DRY, PLAIN, 

NEAT, ELEGANT, FLOWERY. 

Having treated at considerable length of the figures of 
speech, some general observations seem incumbent, concern 
ing the appropriate use of them. 

In the first place, not all the beauties, nor even the chief 
beauties of composition, depend upon tropes and figures. 
Some of the sublimest and most pathetic passages of the 
most admired authors, both in prose and poetry, are expressed 
in the simplest style, without the smallest use of figures ; 
instances of which have already been given. On the other 
hand, a composition may abound with these studied orna¬ 
ments ; the language may be artful, splendid, and highly 
figured, and yet the composition be frigid and unaffecting : 
for, if the style be stiff and affected, if it be deficient in ease 
and neatness, all the figures that can be employed will 
never render it agreeable. 

In the second place, figures, in order to be beautiful, must 
rise naturally from the subject. As all of thorn are the 
language either of imagination, or of passion, they are beau¬ 
tiful, only when they are prompted by one or the other of 
these powers. They must flow from a mind warmed by the 
object which it seeks to describe; and the course of thought 
should never be interrupted to seek for them. Many think 
that the ornaments of style are detached from the subject, 
and can be stuck to it like lace upon a coat. And it is this 
false idea that has often brought attention to the beauties of 
writing into disrepute ; whereas, the real and proper orna- 


Having treated at considerable length of the figures of speech, what 
seems incumbent ? What is the first; and what remark follows 1 On 
the other hand, what may a composition possess, and still be unaffecting; 
and why I What is remarked in the second place ; and for what reasons I 
From a mind in what state must they flow ; and what follows ? Of the 
ornaments of style, many are of what opinion; and what has been the 
effect of this false idea 1 But of the real and proper ornaments of style, 
what is remarked ; and of a writer of genius what is observed ? 



144 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. [Lect. 18. 

merits of style arise from sentiment. They flow in the same 
stream with the current of thought. A writer of genius 
conceives his subject strongly; his imagination is filled and 
impressed with it; and pours itself forth in that figurative 
language which imagination naturally speaks. He assumes 
no emotion which his subject does not excite; he speaks as 
he feels ; but his style will be beautiful, because his feelings 
are lively. 

In the third place, even when imagination prompts them, 
figures must not be employed too frequently. Nothing dero¬ 
gates more from the weight and dignity of any composition, 
than too great attention to ornament. When the ornaments^ 
cost labor, that labor always appears ; though they should 
cost us none, still the reader or hearer maybe surfeited with 
them ; and when they come too thick, they give the im 
pression of a light and frothy genius, that evaporates in 
show, rather than brings forth what is solid. The direc¬ 
tions of the ancient critics on this head, are full of good 
sense, and deserve careful attention. Cicero says, ‘ In all 
human things, disgust borders so closely on the most lively 
pleasures, that we need not be surprised to find this hold in 
eloquence. From reading either poets or orators we may 
easily satisfy ourselves, that neither a poem nor an oration, 
which, without intermission, is showy and sparkling, can 
please us long. Wherefore, though we may wish for the 
frequent praise of having expressed ourselves well and pro¬ 
perly, we should not covet frequent applause, for being 
bright and splendid.’ 

In the fourth place, without a genius for figurative lan¬ 
guage, none should attempt it. Imagination is a power not 
to be acquired ; it must be derived from nature. Its redun¬ 
dancies we may prune, its deviations we may correct, its 
sphere we may enlarge ; but the faculty itself we cannot 
create. All efforts towards an ornamental style, if we have 
not the proper genius for it, will prove awkward and dis¬ 
gusting. But without this talent, or with a very small 
measure of it, we may both write and speak to advantage. 


In the third place, even when imagination prompts them, why should 
not figures be employed too frequently 'l What is remarked of the di¬ 
rections of the ancient critics on this head; and what says Cicero on this 
subject 1 What is the fourth direction for the use of figures; and of 
imagination what is remarked 1 Without what will all efforts towards an 
ornamental style, prove disgusting; but what remark follows 1 




Lect. 18.] CHARACTERS OF STYLE. 145 

Good sense, clear ideas, perspicuity of language, and proper 
arrangement, will always command attention ; and are, 
indeed, the foundations of all solid merit, both in speaking 
and writing. 

That different subjects require different sorts of style, is 
manifest. Every one knows that treatises of philosophy- 
should not be composed in the same style with orations. It 
is equally apparent, that different parts of the same compo¬ 
sition require a variation in the style and manner. Yet 
amidst this variety we still expect to find, in the composition 
of any one man, some degree of uniformity or consistency 
with himself in manner ; we expect to find some prevailing 
character of style impressed on all his writings, which 
shall he suited to, and shall mark his particular genius and 
turn of mind. The orations of Livy differ considerably in 
style, as they should do, from the rest of his history. The 
same observation may he applied to those of Tacitus. Yet 
in the orations of both these elegant historians, the dis¬ 
tinguishing manner of each may be clearly traced—the 
magnificent fullness of the one, and the sententious concise¬ 
ness of the other. Wherever there is real and native genius, 
it prompts to one kind of style rather than to another. 
Where this is wanting—where there is no marked nor 
peculiar character in the compositions of an author, we are 
apt to infer, and not without reason, that he is a vulgar and 
trivial author, who writes from imitation, and not from the 
impulse of original genius. 

One of the first and most obvious distinctions of the dif¬ 
ferent kinds of style, arises from an author’s spreading out 
his thoughts more or less. This distinction forms what is 
called the diffuse and the concise styles. A concise writer ^ 
compresses his thoughts in the fewest possible words; he 
employs none but such as are most expressive; he lops off 
all those which are not a material addition to the sense. 
Whatever ornament he admits is adopted for the sake of 
force, rather than of grace. The same thought is never 

What will always command attention ; and of what are they the founda¬ 
tion 1 How does it appear that different subjects require different sorts of 
style ; and what is equally apparent'? Yet amidst this variety, what do we 
expect to find 1 How is this remark illustrated from the writings of Livy 
and of Tacitus'? Whenever there is real genius, to what does it prompt; 
and where there is no peculiar character in the writings of an author, what 
are we apt to infer 1 From what does one of the first and most obvious 
distinctions of the different kinds of style arise; and what does this 
form'? 


13 



146 CONCISE AND [Dect. 18. 

repeated. The utmost precision is studied in his sentences ; 
and they are generally designed to suggest more to the 
reader’s imagination than they immediately express. 

A diffuse writer unfolds his thought fully. He places 
it in a variety of lights, and gives the reader every possible 
assistance for understanding it completely. He is not very 
anxious to express it at first in its full strength, because he 
intends to repeat the impression; and what he wants in 
strength, he endeavors to supply by copiousness. His pe¬ 
riods naturally flow into some length ; and having room for 
ornament of every kind, he admits it freely. 

Each of these manners has its peculiar advantages; and 
each becomes faulty when carried to the extreme. The 
extreme of conciseness becomes abrupt and obscure; it is 
apt, also, to lead into a style too pointed, and bordering on 
the epigrammatic. The extreme of diffuseness becomes 
weak and languid, and tires the reader. Of conciseness 
carried as far as propriety will allow, perhaps in some cases 
farther, Tacitus the historian, and Montesquieu, in ‘ L’Esprit 
de Loix,’ are remarkable examples. Aristotle, too, holds 
an eminent rank among didactic writers, for brevity. Of a 
beautiful and magnificent diffuseness, Cicero is, beyond 
doubt, the most illustrious instance that can be given. Ad¬ 
dison, also, and Sir William Temple, come, in some degree, 
under this class. 

To determine when to adopt the concise, and when the 
diffuse manner, w*e must be guided by the nature of the com¬ 
position. Discourses that are to be spoken, require a more 
copious style than books that are to be read. In written 
compositions, a proper degree of conciseness has great ad¬ 
vantages. It is more lively ; keeps up attention; makes a 
stronger impression on the mind; and gratifies the reader 
by supplying more exercise to his conception. Description, 
when we wish to have it vivid and animated, should be 
in a concise strain. Any redundant words or circumstances 
encumber the fancy, and render the object we present to it 


Of a concise writer what is remarked 1 What is observed of a diffuses 
writer 1 What is farther observed of each of these methods 1 What is 
remarked of the extreme of conciseness and also of the extreme of diffuse¬ 
ness 'l Wko are the best examples that can be mentioned of conciseness v 
and who, also, of diffuseness h How shall we determine when to adopt the 
concise, and when the diffuse manner; and of discourses that are to be spoken 
what is remarked 1 What are the advantages of conciseness in written 
compositions 1 When should description be in a concise strain ; and why i 



Lect. 18.] DIFFUSE STYLE. 14? 

confused and indistinct. The strength and vivacity of 
description, whether in prose or poetry, depend much more 
upon the happy choice of one or two important circum¬ 
stances, than upon the multiplication of them. When we 
desire to strike the fancy, or to move the heart, we should 
be concise ; when to inform the understanding, which is./-*"' 
more deliberate in its motions, and wants the assistance of 
a guide, it is better to be full. Historical narration may he 
beautiful, either in a concise or diffuse manner, according 
to the author’s genius. Livy and Herodotus are diffuse ; 
Thucydides and Sallust are concise ; yet they are all agree¬ 
able. 

The nervous and the feeble, are generally considered as 
characters of style, of the same import with the concise 
and the diffuse, They do, indeed, very frequently coincide. 
Diffuse writers have, for the most part, some degree of fee¬ 
bleness ; and nervous writers will generally be inclined to 
a concise expression. This, however, does not always 
hold ; since there are instances of writers who, in the midst 
of a full and ample style, have maintained a considerable 
degree of strength. Livy is an example of the truth of this 
remark. The foundation, indeed, of a nervous or a weak 
style, is laid in an author’s manner of thinking. If he con¬ 
ceives an object strongly, he will express it with energy; 
but if he has only an indistinct view of his subject—if his 
ideas be loose and wavering, this will clearly appear in his 
style. Unmeaning words and loose epithets will escape 
him: his expressions will be vague and general; his 
arrangement indistinct and weak ; and our conception of 
his meaning will be faint and confused. But a nervous 
writer, be his style concise or extended, gives us always a 
strong idea of his meaning: his mind being full of his sub¬ 
ject, his words are, consequently, all expressive; every 
phrase and every figure which he uses, renders the picture 
which he would set before us, more striking and complete. 

It must, however, be observed, that too great a study of 

On what does the strength and vivacity of description depend 'l When 
should we be concise, and when full 1 Of historical composition what is 
observed; and who are mentioned as examples 1 How are the nervous 
and feeble generally considered, and in what do they frequently coincide 1 
There are, however, instances of writers of what description; and who is 
an example of the truth of this remark 1 Where is the foundation of a 
nervous or a weak style laid ; and how is this remark fully illustrated 1 
What must, however, be observed; and from what does harshness pro¬ 
ceed 1 





148 DRY STYLE. [Lect. 18. 

strength, to tiie neglect of the other qualities of style, is apt 
to betray writers into a harsh manner. Harshness proceeds 
from uncommon words, from forced inversions in the con¬ 
structions of a sentence, and too great a neglect of smooth¬ 
ness and ease. This is imputed as a fault to some of our 
earliest classics in the English language ; such as Sir Wal¬ 
ter Raleigh, Sir Francis Bacon, Hooker, Harrington, Cud- 
worth, Milton in his prose works, and some other writers 
of considerable reputation in the days of Queen Elizabeth, 
James I., and Charles I. These writers had nerves and 
strength in a high degree ; and are, to this day, distinguished 
for that kind of style. But the language, in their hands, 
was very different from what it is at present, and was, indeed, 
entirely formed upon the idiom and construction of the 
Latin, in the arrangement of sentences. The present form 
which the language has assumed, has, in some degree, 
sacrificed the study of strength to that of ease and perspi¬ 
cuity. Our arrangement has become less forcible, perhaps, 
but more plain and natural: and this is now understood to 
he the genius of our language; the asra of the formation of 
which, seems to be the restoration of King Charles II. 

Hitherto we have considered style under those characters 
that respect its expressiveness of an author’s meaning. We 
shall now consider it in another view—with respect to the 
degree of ornament employed to embellish it. Here, the 
style of different authors seem to rise in the following grada¬ 
tion : a dry, a plain, a neat, an elegant, and a flowery man¬ 
ner. Of each of these we shall treat briefly, in the order 
in which they stand. 

A dry manner excludes all ornament of every kind. 
Content with being understood, it aims not to please, in the 
least degree, either the fancy or the ear. This is tolerable 
in pure didactic writing only ; and even there, to make us 
bear it, great solidity of matter is necessary, and entire 
perspicuity of language. Aristotle is a perfect example of 


To whom is this imputed as a fault; but of these writers what is far¬ 
ther remarked ? What was the language in their hands ; and of the form 
which it has at present assumed, what is remarked ? What is now un 
derstood to be the genius of our language; and what was the sera of its 
formation ? Hitherto how have we considered style ; and how shall we 
now consider it? Here, in what gradation does the style of different 
authors seem to rise ? What is remarked of a dry manner ; and where, 
only, is this tolerable 1 Who is a perfect example of a dry style; and 
what is observed of him ? 




Lect. 18. PLAIN STYLE. 149 

a dry style. Never, perhaps, was there any author who yi 
adhered so rigidly to the strictness of a didactic manner, 
throughout all his writings, and conveyed so much instruc¬ 
tion without the least approach to ornament. But this is 
not a manner to be imitated; as it fatigues attention, and 
conveys our sentiments to others with disadvantage. 

A plain style rises one degree above a dry one. A writer 
of this character employs very little ornament of any kind, 
and rests almost entirely upon his sense. But, though he 
does not engage us by the arts of composition, he avoids dis¬ 
gusting us like a dry and a harsh writer. Besides perspi¬ 
cuity, he observes propriety, purity, and precision, in his 
language ; which form no inconsiderable degree of beauty. 
Liveliness and force are, also, consistent with a plain style ; 
and, therefore, such an author, if his sentiments be good, 
may be sufficiently agreeable. The difference between a 
dry and a plain writer, is, that the former is incapable of , 
ornament, and seems not to know what it is ; the latter does 
not seek after it. He gives us his meaning in language 
distinct and pure ; but about any farther ornament, he gives 
himself no trouble ; either, because he thinks it unnecessary, 
or because his genius does not lead him to delight in it. Of 
writers that have employed the plain style, Dean Swift and 
Mr. Locke, are, perhaps, the most eminent examples. 

What is called a neat style comes next in order : and here 
we are advanced into the region of ornament; but that orna 
ment is not of the most sparkling kind. A writer of this 
character, shows that he does not despise the beauty of lan¬ 
guage, by his attention to the choice of his words, and to 
their graceful collocation. His sentences are always free 
from the incumbrance of superfluous words; are of a 
moderate length ; rather inclining to brevity than to a swell¬ 
ing structure ; and closing with propriety. His cadence is 
varied ; but not of the studied musical kind. His figures, 
if he uses any, are short and correct, rather than bold and 
glowing. Such a style may, by industry and attention, be 


Why is not this manner to be imitated % Of a writer in plain style, 
what is remarked 1 Besides perspicuity, what does he observe ; and what 
do they form \ What are also consistent with a plain stvle ; and. therefore, 
what follows 1 What is the difference between a dry and a plain writer; 
and of the latter kind, who are the most eminent examples 1 1 f a neat 

stvle what is remarked; and what is observed of a writer of this character 1 
What is said of his sentences, his cadence, and his figures 'l By whom 
may such a style be attained; and to what is it applicable ? 



150 FLORID STYLE. [Lect. 18. 

attained by a writer whose powers of fancy and genius are 
not extensive; and it is not unsuitable to any subject whatever. 

An elegant style admits a higher degree of ornament than 
a neat one ; and possesses all the virtues of ornament, with¬ 
out any of its excesses or defects. Complete elegance im¬ 
plies great perspicuity and propriety ; purity in the choice 
of words, and care and dexterity in their harmonious and 
happy arrangement. It implies farther, the grace and 
beauty of imagination spread over style, as far as the subject 
admits it; and all the illustrations which figurative language 
affords, when properly employed. An elegant writer, in 
short, is one who pleases the fancy and the ear, while he 
informs the understanding ; and who clothes his ideas with 
all the beauty of expression, but does not overload them 
with any of its misplaced finery. In this class, therefore 
but few writers in our language are placed ; such as Addi 
son, Dryden, and Pope ; and a few others of the same order. 

A florid style is one in which ornament abounds to excess. 
This, in a young composer, is not only pardonable, but 
often indicates a bold and inventive genius. But, although 
it may be allowed to youth, in their first attempts, it must not 
receive the same indulgence from writers of more experience. 
In them judgment should chasten imagination, and reject 
every ornament which is unsuitable or redundant. This 
tinsel splendor of language, which some writers perpetually 
affect, is truly contemptible. With these, it is a luxuriancy 
of words, not of fancy. They forget that unless it be 
founded on solid thought, the most florid style is but a child 
ish imposition, upon ignorant and unthinking readers. 

What does an elegant style admit; and what does it possess 'i What 
does complete elegance imply ; and what does it still farther imply 1 What, 
in short, is an elegant writer ; and in this class who are placed ? What is 
a florid style ; and what is observed of it in youth 1 But in whom must it 
not receive the same indulgence ; and why 1 Of this tinsel splendor of 
language, and of the writers who use it, what is farther remarked 1 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The appropriate use of figures. 

A. The first direction. 

B. The second direction. 

C. The third direction. 

D. The fourth direction. 

2. Style, with respect to fts ex¬ 

pression. 

A. The diffuse and the concise 
style. 


B. The nervous and the feeble 
style. 

3. Style, with respect to ornament. 

A. A dry style. 

B. A [wain style. 

C. A neat style. 

D. An elegant style. 

E. A florid style. 











LECTURE XIX. 

GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE—SIMPLE, 
AFFECTED, VEHEMENT—DIRECTIONS 
FOR FORMING A PROPER STYLE. 

We next proceed to treat of style under another charac¬ 
ter ; which is one of great importance in writing, and which 
requires to he accurately examined—that of simplicity as 
distinguished from affectation. Simplicity, applied to writing, 
is a term very commonly used; hut, like many other criti¬ 
cal terms, often used vaguely and without precision. The 
different meanings given to, the word simplicity, has been 
the chief cause of this inaccuracy. It will not, therefore, 
be improper to make a distinction between them, and show 
in what sense simplicity is a proper attribute of style. There 
are four different acceptations in which this term is taken. 

The first is simplicity of composition, as opposed to too 
great a variety of parts. Horace’s precept refers to this : 

Denique sit quod vis simplex duntaxat et unum. 

Then learn the wandering humor to control, 

And keep one equal tenor through the whole. FrancU 

This is the simplicity of plan in a tragedy, as distinguished 
from double plots, and crowded incidents—the simplicity of 
the Iliad or the iEneid, in opposition to the digressions of 
Lucan ; the simplicity of Grecian architecture, in opposition 
to the irregular variety of the Gothic. Simplicity, in this 
sense, is the same as unity. 

The second sense is simplicity of thought, in opposition 
to refinement Simple thoughts are those which flow 
naturally—which are easily suggested by the subject or 
occasion ; and which, when once suggested, are universally 


Under what character do we next proceed to treat of style ; and what is 
said of it I Of simplicity, when applied to writing, what is remarked; 
and what has been the chief cause of this inaccuracy 'l What, therefore, 
will not be improper ; and in how many different acceptations is the term 
taken 1 What is the first; and in reference to this what is the precept of 
Horace 1 What examples of simplicity of this kind are mentioned ; and 
in this sense simplicity is the same as what 1 What is the second sense; 
and what are simple thoughts ? 




152 SIMPLICITY AND [Lect. 19, 

understood. Refinement in writing-, expresses a less ob¬ 
vious and natural train of thought, and which it required a 
peculiar turn of genius to pursue—within certain hounds 
very beautiful; but when carried too far, approaching to 
intricacy, and is unpleasing, from the appearance of being 
far sought. Thus, we should naturally say, that Mr. Par¬ 
nell is a poet of far greater simplicity, in his turn of thought, 
than Mr. Cowley; Cicero’s thoughts on moral subjects are 
natural; Seneca’s too refined and labored. In these two 
senses of simplicity, it has no relation to style. 

A third sense of simplicity, is that in which it regards 
style ; and is opposed to too much ornament or pomp of 
language. Thus we say, Mr. Locke is a simple, and Mr. 
Hervey a florid writer. The simplest style, in this sense, 
coincides with the plain or neat style, and, therefore, requires 
no farther illustration. 

There is a fourth sense of simplicity, which also respects 
style; but it regards not so much the degree of ornament 
employed, as the easy and natural manner in which our 
language expresses our thoughts. In this sense simplicity 
is compatible with the highest ornament. Homer, for ex¬ 
ample, possesses this simplicity in the greatest perfection : 
and yet no writer has more ornament and beauty. This 
simplicity, which is what we are now to consider, stands 
opposed, not to ornament, but to affectation of ornament, or 
appearance of labor about our style ; and is a distinguished 
excellency in writing. 

A writer of simplicity expresses himself in such a man¬ 
ner, that every one thinks he could have written in the same 
way ; Horace describes it, 

-ut sibi quivis 

Speret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret 
Ausus idem. 

From well-known tales such fictions would I raise, 

As all might hope to imitate with ease ; 

Yet while they strive the same success to gain, 

Should find their labors and their hopes in vain. Francis. 


What does refinement in writing express ; and what is observed of it ! 
To illustrate this remark, what examples are given 1 What is the third 
sense of simplicity; and how is this illustrated 1 With what does the 
simple style in this sense correspond; and, therefore, what follows 1 
What is the fourth sense of simplicity ; and h. this sense with what is it 
compatible ! Who is an example of this simplicity ; and what is observed 
of him 1 To what does this simplicity stand opposed ; and how is it re¬ 
garded! How does a writer of simplicity express himself; and how docs 
Horace describe it 1 




Lect. 19.] AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 153 

There are no marks of art in his expression : it seems the 
very language of nature : we see not the style, not the 
writer and his labor, but the man in his own natural cha¬ 
racter. He may he rich in his expression; he may be full of 
figures and of fancy; but these flow from him without 
effort; and he appears to write in this manner, not because 
he has studied it, but because it is the manner of expression 
most natural to him. With this character of style, a cer¬ 
tain degree of negligence is not inconsistent; it is even not 
ungraceful; for too accurate an attention to words is foreign 
to it. The great advantage of simplicity of style is, that 
like simplicity of manners, it shows us a man’s sentiments 
and turn of mind, laid open without disguise. More studied 
and artificial manners of writing, however beautiful, have 
always this disadvantage—that they exhibit an author in 
form, like a man at court, where the splendor of dress, 
and the ceremonial of behavior, conceal those peculiarities 
which distinguish one man from another. But reading an 
author of simplicity, is like conversing with a person of rank 
at home, and with ease, where we see his natural manners, 
and his real character. 

With respect to simplicity in general, we may remark, 
that the ancient original writers are always the most eminent 
for it. This proceeds from a very obvious cause—that they 
wrote from the dictates of natural genius, and were not 
formed upon the labors and writings of others, which will 
always, without great care, produce affectation. Hence, 
among the Greek writers, we have more models of a beautiful 
simplicity than among the Romans. Homer, Hesiod, 
Anacreon, Theocritus, Herodotus, and Xenophon, are all 
distinguished for it. Among the Romans also, we have 
some writers of this character; particularly Terence, Lu¬ 
cretius, and Julius Caesar. 

Of the highest degree of simplicity in style, Mr. Addison 
is, beyond doubt, the most perfect example in the English 
language. In perspicuity and purity, he stands unequalled ; 


Of a writer of this description what is farther observed 'l With this 
manner of writing what is not inconsistent; and why 1 What is the 
great advantage of simplicity of style; and what disadvantage have more 
studied and artificial manners of writing % But reading an author of sim¬ 
plicity is like what 1 With respect to simplicity in general, what may we 
remark; and from what does this proceed 1 Hence, among the Greek 
and Roman writers, what follows 1 As it respects the highest degree of 
simplicity in style, what is observed of Mr. Addison 1 




154 SIMPLICITY AND [Lect. 19. 

and his precision, though not great, is as great as his sub¬ 
jects generally require. The construction of his sentences 
is easy, agreeable, and commonly very musical. In figu¬ 
rative language he is rich; particularly in metaphors; 
which are so employed as to render his style splendid, with¬ 
out being gaudy. There is not the least affectation in his 
manner : we see no mark of labor ; nothing forced or Con¬ 
strained ; but great elegance joined with great ease and sim 
plicity. He is particularly distinguished by a character of 
modesty and politeness, which appears in all his writings. 
No writer has a more popular and insinuating manner ; and 
the great regard which he every where shows for virtue and 
religion, recommends him highly. If he fails in any thing, 
it is, that he wants strength ; which renders his manner, 
though perfectly suited to the essays in the Spectator, not 
altogether a proper model for any of the higher kinds of 
composition. 

Of affectation in style, which is opposed to simplicity, we 
have a remarkable instance in our language. Lord Shaftes- 
J bury, though an author of considerable merit, can express 
nothing with simplicity. He seems to have considered it 
vulgar, and beneath the dignity of a man of fashion, to 
speak like other men. Hence, he is perpetually in buskins ; 
replete with circumlocutions and artificial elegance. In 
every sentence the marks of labor are visible; no appear¬ 
ance of that ease which expresses a sentiment coming natural 
and warm from the heart. He abounds with figures and 
ornaments of every kind ; is sometimes happy in them ; but 
his fondness for them is too conspicuous ; and having once 
seized some metaphor or allusion that pleased him, he 
knows not how to part with it. He possessed delicacy and 
refinement of taste, to a degree that may be called excessive 
and sickly ; but he had little warmth of passion; and the 
coldness of his character suggested that artificial and stately 
manner which appears in his writings. No author is more 
dangerous to the tribe of imitators than Shaftesbury, who, 

Of the construction of his sentences, and of his metaphors, particularly, 
what is remarked 'l What remarks follow 1 For what is he particularly 
distinguished: and what recommend him highly 7 If he fails in any 
thing, in what is it; and what is its effect 1 Of affectation in style, who 
is the most remarkable instance in our language ; and what is remarked 
of him 'l In every sentence what are visible ; and without any appear¬ 
ance of what ? With what does he abound ; and what is observed of 
them I What did he possess ; and to whatrdegree 1 Why is he danger¬ 
ous to the tribe of imitators l 





Lf.ct. 19.] AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 155 

amidst very considerable blemishes, has, at the same time, 
many dazzling' and imposing-beauties. 

It is very possible, however, for an author to write with 
simplicity, and yet to be destitute of beauty. He may be 
free from affectation, and not have merit. The beautiful 
simplicity supposes an author to possess real genius ; and 
capable of writing with solidity, purity, and liveliness of 
imagination. In this case the simplicity or unaffectedness 
of his manner is the crowning ornament: it heightens every 
other beauty; it is the dress of nature, without which all 
beauties are imperfect. But if the mere absence of affecta¬ 
tion were sufficient to constitute the beauty of style, weak 
and dull writers might often have pretensions to it. And 
accordingly we frequently meet with pretended critics, who 
extol the dullest writers on account of what they call the 
4 chaste simplicity of their manner which, in fact, is nothing 
but the absence of all ornament, through the mere want of 
genius and imagination. A distinction, therefore, must be 
made between the simplicity which accompanies true genius, 
and which is perfectly compatible with every proper orna¬ 
ment of style, and that which is no other than a careless 
and slovenly manner. 

Another character of style, different from those which 
have already been mentioned, is the vehement. This always 
implies strength; and is not, in any respect, inconsistent 
with simplicity. It is distinguished by a peculiar ardor ; it 
is the language of a man whose imagination and passions 
are heated, and strongly affected by what he writes ; who 
is, therefore, negligent of lesser graces, but pours himself 
forth with the rapidity and fullness of a torrent. It belongs 
to the higher kinds of oratory; and, indeed, is rather ex¬ 
pected from a man who is speaking, than from one who is 
writing in his closet. The orations of Demosthenes furnish 
the fullest and most perfect example of this species of style. 

Having ascertained and explained the different characters 

How does it appear that an author may write with simplicity, and yet be 
destitute of beauty ; and what does the beautiful simplicity suppose 'l In 
this case what is the crowning ornament; and why I But if the mere 
absence of affectation were sufficient to constitute the beauty of style, what 
would follow I Accordingly, with what do we frequently meet; and 
what is observed of it I Between what, therefore, must a distinction be 
made I Of the vehement style what is remarked; and with what is it not 
inconsistent r i What is farther observed of it; and to what does it belong 1 
Whose orations furnish an example of this species of style I Having ex¬ 
plained the different characters of style, with what shall we conclude 1 




156 DIRECTIONS FOR [Lect. 19. 

of style, we shall conclude our observations with a few 
directions for the attainment of excellence in writing. 

The first direction proper to be observed, is, to study 
clear ideas on the subject concerning which we are to write 
or to speak. This direction may appear, at first, to have 
little relation to style; but its relation to it is extremely 
close. The style and thoughts of a writer are so intimately 
connected, that, as has already been frequently hinted, it is 
often difficult to distinguish them. Wherever the impression 
of things upon our minds are faint and indistinct, or per¬ 
plexed and confused, our style, in treating of such things, 
will infallibly be so too. But, what we conceive clearly 
and feel strongly, we shall naturally express with clearness 
and with strength. We should, therefore, think closely on 
the subject, till we shall have attained a full and distinct view 
of the matter which we are to clothe in words—till we be¬ 
come warm and interested in it; then, and not till then, shall 
we find expression begin to flow. 

In the second place, to the acquisition of a good style, 
frequency of composing is indispensably necessary. Many 
rules respecting style have been delivered, but no rules will 
answer the end without exercise and habit. At the same 
time, it is not every sort of composing that will improve 
style. This is so far from being the case, that by frequent, 
careless, and hasty composition, we shall acquire a very bad 
style ; and shall have more trouble afterwards in unlearning 
faults, and correcting negligences, than if we had not been 
accustomed to compose at all. In the beginning, therefore, 
we ought to write with great deliberation and care. Facility 
and rapidity are the fruit of practice and experience. We 
must be cautious, however, not to retard the course ol 
thought, nor cool the ardor of imagination, by pausing too 
long on every word we employ. There is, on certain 
occasions, a glow of composition which should be kept up, 
if we hope to express ourselves happily, though at the ex¬ 
pense of some inaccuracies. A more severe examination 
must be the work of correction. What we have written 
should be laid aside for some time, till the ardor of compo- 

What is the first; and what is remarked of it? How is this remark 
illustrated 1 ? What should we, therefore, do; and why? In the second 
place, to,the acquisition of a good style, what is requisite; hut at the same 
time, why will not every kind of composition improve it ? In the begin¬ 
ning, therefore, how should we write ; but of what must we be cautious; 
and why ? How should we correct what we may have written?' 


Lect. 19.] FORMING STYLE. 157 

sition be past; till the partiality for our expressions be 
weakened, and the expressions themselves be forgotten; and 
then, examining our work with a cool and critical eye, as if 
it were the performance of another, we shall discover many 
imperfections, which at first escaped our notice. 

In the third place, an acquaintance with the style of the 
best authors is peculiarly requisite.' Hence a just taste will 
be formed, and a copious fund of words be supplied, on every 
subject. No exercise, perhaps, will be found more useful 
for acquiring a proper style, than to translate some passage 
from an elegant author, into our own words. Thus to take, 
for instance, a page of one of Mr. Addison’s papers in the 
Spectator, and read it carefully two or three times over, till 
we are in full possession of the thoughts it contains; then 
to lay aside the book ; to attempt to write out the passage 
from memory, as well as we can; and having done so, open 
the book, and compare what we have written with the style 
of the author. Such an exercise will, by comparison, show 
us where our defects lie ; will teach us how to correct them ; 
and, from the variety of expression which it will exhibit, 
will conduct us to that which is most beautiful and perfect. 

In the fourth place, a caution must be given against a 
servile imitation of any one author whatever. Imitation 
hampers genius, and generally produces stiffness of ex¬ 
pression. They who follow an author minutely, commonly 
copy his faults as well as his beauties. No one will ever 
be an accomplished writer or speaker, who has not some 
confidence in his own genius. We ought carefully to avoid 
using any author’s particular phrases, or transcribing pas¬ 
sages from him : such a habit will prove fatal to all genuine 
composition. It is much better to possess something of our 
own, though of inferior beauty, than to endeavor to shine in 
borrowed ornaments, which will, at last, betray the utter 
barrenness of our genius. 

In the fifth place, it is an obvious, but material rule, with 
respect to style, that we always study to adapt it to the sub¬ 
ject, and also to the capacity of our hearers if we are to 


What is the third direction 1 What exercise is recommended ; and 
what illustration is given 1 What will be the effect of such an exercise 1 
What is the fourth direction; and why b* it given 1 Without what will 
no one ever be an accomplished writer or speaker; what ought we, there¬ 
fore, carefully to avoid ; and why 1 What remark follows ? In the fifth 
place, what is an obvious rule with respect to style ; and what is awkward 
and absurd 'l 


14 





158 


DIRECTIONS, &c. ILect. 19. 


speak in public. To attempt a poetical style, when it should 
be our business to argue and reason only, is, in the highest 
degree, awkward and absurd. To speak with elaborate 
pomp of words, before those who cannot comprehend them, 
is equally ridiculous and useless. When we begin to write 
or speak, we should previously impress on our minds a 
complete idea of the end to be aimed at; keep this steadily 
in view, and adapt our style to it. 

We must, in the last place, remember, that attention to 
style must not engross us so much, as to prevent a higher 
degree of attention to the thoughts. This rule is the more 
necessary, since the present taste of the age seems to be 
directed more to style than to thought. It is much more 
easy to dress up trifling and common thoughts with some 
ornament of expression, than to afford a fund of vigorous, 
ingenious, and useful sentiments. The latter requires 
genius; the former may be attained by industry , with the 
aid of very superficial parts. Hence the crowd of writers 
who are rich in words, but poor in sentiments. The public ear 
is now so much accustomed to a correct and ornamented 
style, that no writer can, with safety, neglect the study of 
it. But he is a contemptible one, who looks not beyond the 
dress of language; who lays not the chief stress upon his 
matter ; and who does not regard ornament as a secondary 
and inferior recommendation. 


What is equally ridiculous and useless ; and what remark follows ? 
What must we, in the last place, remember ; and why is this rule the more 
necessary 1 What remark follows ; and why is this the case 1 What is 
the present state of the public ear; and who, consequently, is a con¬ 
temptible writer % 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Simplicity of style. 

A. Simplicity of composition. 

B. Simplicity in opposition to 

refinement. 

C. Simplicity in opposition to 

ornament. 

D. Simplicity of expression, 
a. Illustrated. 

E. Affectation in style. 

2. The vehement style. 

3. Directions for attaining a good 

style. 


A. Clear ideas to be studied. 

B. Frequency of composition. 


C. Familiarity with the best 

authors. 

D. Servile imitation to be avoid¬ 

ed. 

E. Style to be adapted to the 

subject. 

F. Thoughts to be attended to 

rather than style. 






LECTURE XX. 

CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF MR. ADDISON’S 
STYLE, IN No. 411 OF THE SPECTATOR. 

Having, from its importance, insisted fully on the subject 
of language and style in general, we shall now enter upon a 
critical analysis of the style of some good author. This 
will suggest observations that we have not hitherto had 
occasion to make, and will show, in a proper light, some of 
those which have been made. 

Mr. Addison is the author chosen for this purpose. The 
Spectator, of which his papers are the chief ornament, is in 
the hands of every one, and cannot be praised too highly. 
The good sense and good writing, the useful morality, and 
the admirable vein of humor which abound in it, render it 
one of those standard books which have done the greatest 
honor to the English nation. The general character of Mr. 
Addison’s style, as formerly given, is natural and unaffected, 
easy and polite; and full of those graces which a 
flowery imagination diffuses over writing. At the same 
time, though one of the most beautiful writers in the lan¬ 
guage, he is not the most correct—a circumstance which 
renders his composition the more proper to he the subject of 
our present criticism. The free and flowing manner of this 
amiable author, sometimes led him into inaccuracies, which 
the more studied circumspection and care of far inferior 
writers, have taught them to avoid. Remarking his beau¬ 
ties, therefore, which we shall have frequent occasion to do, 
as v?e proceed, we must also point out his negligences and 
defects. The paper with which we commence, is No. 411, 
the first of his celebrated Essays on the Pleasures of the 
Imagination. It begins thus : 

‘ Our sight is the most perfect, and most delightful of all 
our senses.’ 

This is an excellent introductory sentence. It is clear, 
precise, and simple. The author lays down, in a few plain 
words, the proposition which he is going to illustrate. In 
this manner we should always commence. A first sentence 
should seldom be long, and never intricate. 

He might have said, ‘ Ou,r sight is the most 'perfect and 


160 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect. 20. 

the most delightful' But in omitting to repeat the article 
the , he has been more judicious ; since, between 'perfect and 
delightful , in the present case, there being no contrast, such 
a repetition was unnecessary. He proceeds : 

4 It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, con¬ 
verses with its objects at the greatest distance, and continues 
the longest in action, without being tired or satiated with its 
proper enjoyments.’ 

This sentence is remarkably harmonious, and well con¬ 
structed. It possesses, indeed, most of the properties of a 
perfect sentence. It is entirely perspicuous. It is loaded 
with no unnecessary words. That quality of a good sen¬ 
tence, which Ave termed its unity, is here perfectly pre¬ 
served. The members of it also grow and rise above each 
other in sound, till it is conducted to one of the most har¬ 
monious closes that our language admits. It has also 
another beauty—it is figurative, without being too much so 
for the subject. There is no fault in it whatever, except that 
a severe critic, might, perhaps, object that the epithet large , 
which he applies to variety , is more commonly applied to 
extent than to number. It is evident, however, that he em¬ 
ployed it to avoid the repetition of the word great , wdiicb 
occurs immediately afterwards. 

4 The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of 
extension, shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, 
except colors; but, at the same time, it is very much 
straightened and confined in its operations, to the number, 
bulk, and distance of its particular objects.’ 

This sentence is not so happy as the preceding. It is, 
indeed, neither clear nor elegant. Extension and shape can, 
with no propriety, be called ideas; since they are proper¬ 
ties of matter. Neither can we properly speak of any 
sense giving us a notion of ideas; because our senses give 
us the ideas themselves. The latter part of the sentence is 
still more confused. The sense of feeling, we are told, is 
confined in its operations , to the number , bulk , and distance 
of its particular objects. But is not every sense confined, 
as much as the sense of feeling, to the number, bulk, and 
distance of its own objects ? The turn of expression is 
also here very inaccurate; and it requires the two words, 
with regard , to be inserted after the word operations , to make 
the sense clear and intelligible. The epithet particular , 
seems to be used instead of peculiar; but these words, 
though often confounded, are of very different import. Par- 


Lect. 20.] OF MR. ADDISON’S STYLE. 161 

ticular is opposed to general; peculiar is opposed to what is 
possessed in common with others. 

‘ Our sight seems designed to supply all these defects, 
and may be considered as a more delicate and diffusive kind 
of touch, that spreads itself over an infinite number of bodies, 
comprehends the largest figures, and brings into our reach 
some of the most remote parts of the universe.’ 

Here again the author’s style returns upon us in all its 
beauty. This sentence is distinct, graceful, well arranged, 
and musical. Its construction is so similar to that of the 
second sentence, that, had it immediately followed it, we 
should have been sensible of a faulty monotony. The 
interposition of another sentence, however, prevents this un¬ 
pleasing effect. 

‘ It is this sense which furnishes the imagination with its 
ideas ; so that by the pleasures of the imagination or fancy, 
(which 1 shall use promiscuously,) I here mean such as 
arise from visible objects, either when we have them actually 
in our view ; or when we call up their ideas into our minds, 
by paintings-, statues, descriptions, or any the like occasion.’ 

In place of, It is this sense which furnishes, the author might 
have more briefly said, This sense furnishes. But the mode 
of expression which he has used, is here more proper. This 
sort of full and ample assertion, it is this which , is fit to be 
used when a proposition of importance is laid down, to 
which we seek to call the reader’s attention. It is like 
pointing to the object of which we speak* The parenthesis 
in the middle of the sentence is not clear. He should have 
said, terms which 1 shall use promiscuously; as the verb use 
relates not to the pleasures of the imagination, but to the 
terms fancy and imagination, which he was to employ as 
synonymous. To call a painting or a statue an occasion , is 
not an accurate expression ; nor is it very proper to speak 
of calling up ideas by occasions. The common phrase, any 
such means , would have been more natural and appropriate. 

‘ We cannot, indeed, have a single image in the fancy, 
that did not make its first entrance through the sight; but 
we have the power of retaining, altering, and compounding 
those images which we have once received, into all the 
varieties of picture and vision that are most agreeable to 
the imagination ; for, by this faculty, a man in a dungeon 
is capable of entertaining himself with scenes and landscapes 
more beautiful than any that can be found in the whole coin- 
pass of nature.’ 


14* 


162 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect. 20. 

In one member of this sentence there is an inaccuracy in 
syntax. It is very proper to say, altering and compounding 
those images which we have once received , into all the vari- 
eties of picture and vision: hut we can with no propriety 
say, retaining them into all the varieties; and. yet, the 
arrangement requires this construction. This error might 
have been avoided by arranging the passage in the following 
manner : ‘ We have the power of retaining, altering, and 
compounding those images which we have once received; 
and of forming them into all the varieties of picture and 
vision.’ The latter part of the sentence is perspicuous and 
elegant. 

‘ There are few words in the English language which 
are employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense, 
than those of the fancy and the imagination.’ 

Except when some assertion of consequence is advanced, 
these little words, it is, and there are , ought to be avoided as 
redundant and enfeebling. The first two words of this sen¬ 
tence, therefore, would have been much better omitted. 
The article prefixed to fancy and imagination , should also 
have been left out, since he does not mean the powers of the 
fancy and the imagination, but the words only. The sen¬ 
tence should have run thus : ‘ Few words in the English 
language are employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed 
sense, than fancy and imagination.’ 

‘ I therefore thought it necessary to fix and determine the 
notion of these two words, as I intend to make use of them 
in the thread of my following speculations, that the reader 
may conceive rightly what is the subject which I proceed 
upon.’ 

Though the words fix and determine, may, at first sight, 
appear synonymous, yet they are not so. We fix what is 
loose; that is, we confine the word to its proper place, that 
it may not fluctuate in our imagination, and pass from one 
idea to another ; and we determine what is uncircumscribed; 
that is, we ascertain its limits, we draw the circle round it, 
that we may see its boundaries. These two words, there¬ 
fore, are applied here with peculiar grace and delicacy. 

The notion of these loords, is rather a harsh phrase ; at 
least, it is not so commonly used as the meaning of these 
words . As I intend to make use of them in the thread of my 
speculations, is, also, evidently faulty A sort of metaphor 
is improperly mixed with words in their literal sense. He 
should have simply said, as l intend to m,oke use of them in 


Lect. 20.] OF MR. ADDISON’S STYLE. 163 

my following speculations. The subject which I proceed 
upon, is an ungraceful close of a sentence; it should have 
been, the subject upon which I proceed. 

‘ I must therefore desire him to remember, that by the 
pleasures of the imagination, I mean only such pleasures 
as arise originally from sight and that I divide these plea¬ 
sures into two kinds.’ 

As the last sentence began with, I therefore thought it 
necessary to fix, it is careless to begin this sentence in a 
manner so very similar— I must therefore desire him to re¬ 
member ; especially as the small variation of using, on this 
account , or, for this reason, in place of therefore, would have 
amended the style. In the phrase, I mean only such plea¬ 
sures, the word only is not in its proper place. It is not 
intended here to qualify the verb mean, but such pleasures ; 
and ought, therefore, to be placed immediately after the 
latter. 

‘ My design being, first of all, to discourse of those pri¬ 
mary pleasures of the imagination, which entirely proceed 
from such objects as are before our eyes; and, in the next 
place, to speak of those secondary pleasures of the imagina¬ 
tion, which floAV from the ideas of visible objects, when the 
objects are not actually before the eye, but are called up 
into our memories, or formed into agreeable visions of 
things, that are either absent or fictitious.’ 

In laying down the division of a subject, it is of im¬ 
portance to study neatness and brevity as much as possible. 
This sentence is not happy in this respect. It is somewhat 
clogged by a tedious phraseology. My design being first 
of all , to discourse—in the next place to speak of such objects 
as are before our eyes—things that are either absent or 
fictitious. Several words might have been omitted here, 
and the style rendered more neat and compact. 

‘ The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full 
extent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as 
those of the understanding.’ 

This sentence is clear and elegant. 

‘ The last are indeed more preferable, because they are 
founded on some new knowledge or improvement in the 
mind of man : yet it must be confessed, that those of the 
imagination are as great and as transporting as the other.’ 

The phrase more preferable , in the beginning of this sen¬ 
tence, is so palpable an inaccuracy, that we are surprised 
how it could have escaped the observation of Mr. Addison 


164 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect 20 

It must be farther observed, that the proposition contained in 
the last member of this sentence, is neither clear nor neatly 
expressed— it must be confessed , that those.of the imagina¬ 
tion are as great , and as transporting as the other. In the 
beginning of this sentence, he had called the pleasures of 
the understanding the last; and he concludes with observing, 
that those of the imagination are as great and transporting 
as the other. Now, besides that the other makes not a proper 
contrast with the last , it is left doubtful, whether by the other , 
are not meant the pleasures of the understanding, or the 
pleasures of sense, for it may refer to either by the construc¬ 
tion ; though, no doubt, it was intended to refer to the 
pleasures of the understanding only. 

‘ A beautiful prospect delights the soul as much as a de¬ 
monstration ; and a description in Homer has charmed more 
readers than a chapter in Aristotle.’ 

This is a good illustration of what had been asserted, and 
is expressed with that elegance for which Mr. Addison is so 
remarkable. 

‘ Besides, the pleasures of the imagination have this 
advantage above those of the understanding, that they are 
more obvious, and more easy to be acquired.’ 

This is also an unexceptionable sentence. 

‘ It is but opening the eye, and the scene enters.’ 

This sentence is lively and picturesque. By the gayety 
and briskness which it gives the style, it shows the great 
advantage of intermixing long and short sentences. We 
must remark, however, a small inaccuracy—a scene cannot 
be said to enter: an actor enters ; but a scene appears , or 
presents itself. 

‘ The colors paint themselves on the fancy, with very little 
attention to thought or application of mind in the beholder.’ 

This is another beautiful illustration; and carried on with 
ihat agreeable floweriness of fancy and style, which is so 
well suited to those pleasures of the imagination, of which 
the author is treating. 

‘ We are struck, we know not how, with the'Symmetry of 
any thing we see, and immediately assent to the beauty of an 
object, without inquiring into the particular causes and 
occasions of it.’ 

We assent to the truth of a proposition; but cannot, without 
impropriety, be said to assent to the beauty of an object. 
Acknowledge would have expressed the sense with more 
propriety. In the conclusion, too, both particular and occa 


Lect. 20.] OF MR. ADDISON’S STYLE. 165 

sions are superfluous words ; and the pronoun it, is, in some 
measure, ambiguous, its reference not being clear. 

4 A man of a polite imagination is let into a great many 
pleasures, that the vulgar are not capable of receiving.’ 

Polite , is perhaps, applied with more propriety to manners, 
than to the mind or imagination. There is nothing farther 
to be observed on this sentence, unless it be, the use of that 
for a relative pronoun, instead of which—a usage which is 
too frequent with Mr. Addison. Which is esteemed prefer¬ 
able to that , in all cases, except where it is necessary to avoid 
an ungraceful repetition. 

‘He can converse with a picture, and find an agreeable 
companion in a statue. He meets with a secret refreshment 
in a description ; and often feels a greater satisfaction in the 
prospects of fields and meadows, than another does in the 
possession. It gives him, indeed, a kind of property in 
every thing he sees ; and makes the most rude uncultivated 
parts of nature administer to his pleasure : so that he looks 
.upon the world, as it were in another light, and discovers in 
it a multitude of charms that conoeal themselves from the 
generality of mankind.’ 

This sentence is easy, flowing, and harmonious. We 
must, however, observe a slight inaccuracy. It gives him 
a kind of property—to this it, there is no antecedent in the 
whole paragraph. To discover its connection, we must 
look back to the third sentence preceding, which begins 
with, a man of polite imagination. This phrase, polite 
imagination , is the only antecedent to which it can refer; 
and even this is not a proper antecedent, since it stands in 
the genitive case, as the qualification only of a man. 

‘ There are, indeed, but very few, who know how to be 
idle and innocent, or have a relish of any pleasures that are 
not criminal; every diversion they take, is at the expense of 
some one virtue or another, and their very first step out of 
business is into vice or folly.’ 

This sentence is truly elegant, musical, and correct. 

‘ A man should endeavor, therefore, to make the sphere of 
his innocent pleasures as wide as possible, that he may re¬ 
tire into them with safety, and find in them, such a satis¬ 
faction as a wise man would not blush to take.’ 

This also is a good sentence, and gives occasion to no 
material remark. 

‘ Of this nature are those of the imagination, which do 
not require such a bent of thought as is necessary to ou 


166 ' CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect. 20. 

more serious emplbyments, nor, at the same time, suffer the 
mind to sink into that indolence and remissness, which are 
apt to accompany our more sensual delights ; but like a gen¬ 
tle exercise to the faculties, awaken them from sloth and 
idleness, without putting them upon any labor or difficulty.’ 

The beginning of this sentence is not correct, being too 
loosely connected with the preceding one. Of this nature , 
says he, are those of the imagination. It might be asked, 
of what nature ? For the preceding sentence had not 
described the nature of any class of pleasures. He had said 
that it was every man’s duty to make the sphere of his in¬ 
nocent pleasures as extensive as possible, in order that, 
vvithin that sphere, he might find a safe retreat and a lauda¬ 
ble satisfaction. The transition, therefore, is made loosely. 
It would have been better had he said, ‘ This advantage we 
gain,’ or, ‘ This satisfaction we enjoy,’ by means of the 
pleasures of the imagination. The rest of the sentence is- 
unexceptionable. 

4 We might here add, that the pleasures of the fancy are 
more conducive to health than those of the understanding, 
which are worked out by dint of thinking, and attended 
with too violent a labor of the brain.’ 

On this sentence, nothing occurs deserving of remark, 
except that, icorked out by dint of thinking , which borders 
too much on vulgar and colloquial language, to be proper 
for being employed in a polished composition. 

‘ Delightful scenes, whether in nature, painting, or 
poetry, have a kindly influence on the body, as well as the 
mind, and not only serve to clear and brighten the imagi¬ 
nation, but are able to disperse grief and melancholy, and to 
set the animal spirits in pleasing and agreeable motions. 
For this reason, Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon 
Health, has not thought it improper to prescribe to his reader 
a poem, or a prospect, where he particularly dissuades him 
from knotty and subtle disquisitions, and advises him to 
pursue studies that fill the mind with splendid and illustrious 
objects, as histories, fables, and contemplations of nature.’ 

In the latter of these two sentences, a member of the pe¬ 
riod is improperly placed—where he particularly dissuades 
him from knotty and subtle disquisitions : these words 
should, doubtless, have been placed in the following man¬ 
ner : Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, where 
he particularly dissuades the reader from knotty and subtle 
speculations, has not thought it improper, &c. 


Lect. 20.] OF MR. ADDISON’S STYLE. 16? 

‘ I have, in this paper, by way of introduction, settled the 
notion of those pleasures of the imagination, which are the 
subject of my present undertaking; and endeavored, by 
several considerations, to recommend to my readers the pur¬ 
suit of those pleasures ; I shall, in my next paper, examine 
the several sources from whence these pleasures are 
derived.’ 

These two concluding sentences afford examples of the 
proper collocation of circumstances in a period. We have 
formerly showed, that a judicious collocation of them is a 
matter of difficulty. Had the following incidental circum¬ 
stances— by way of introduction—by several considera¬ 
tions — in this payer—in the next paper —been placed in any 
other situation, the sentence would neither have been so 
neat nor so clear as it is by the present construction. 


LECTURE XXL 

CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN 
No. 412 OF THE SPECTATOR. 

The observations which have occurred in reviewing that 
paper of Mr. Addison, which was the subject of the last lec¬ 
ture, sufficiently show, that in the writings of an author of 
the most happy genius, and distinguished talents, inaccu¬ 
racies may sometimes be found. Though such inaccuracies 
may be overbalanced by so many beauties as render style 
highly phasing and agreeable upon the whole, yet it must 
be desiraole to every writer to avoid, as far as possible, 
inaccuracy of any kind. As the subject, therefore, is of 
importance, it may be useful to carry on this criticism 
throughout one or two subsequent papers of the Spectator. 
We proceed to the examination of paper No. 412. 

‘ I shall first consider those pleasures of the imagination, 
which arise from the actual view and survey of outward 
objects : and these, I think, all proceed from the sight of 
what is great, uncommon, or beautiful.’ 

This sentence is simple and distinct. The words view 
and survey , as here used, are not altogether synonymous; 
as the former may be supposed to import mere inspection, 
and the latter, more deliberate examination ; yet, in the pre¬ 
sent case, either of them, perhaps, would have been suf¬ 
ficient. 

‘ There may, indeed, be something so terrible or offensive, 
that the horror, or loathsomeness of an object, may overbear the 
pleasure which results from its novelty, greatness, or beauty ; 
but still there will be such a mixture of delight in the very 
disgust it gives us, as any of these three qualifications are 
most conspicuous and prevailing.’ 

This must be acknowledged to be an unfortunate sentence. 
The sense is obscure and embarrassed, and the expression 
loose and irregular. In the beginning, something and object 
are wrongly placed. The natural arrangement would have 
been, there may , indeed , be something in an object so terrible 
or offensive , that the horror or loathsomeness of it may over¬ 
bear. These two epithets, horror or loathsomeness , are 
awkwardly joined together. Loathsomeness may be applied 


Lect .214 CRITICAL EXAMINATION. 16 * 

to objects, but horror cannot; it is a feeling excited in the^ 
mind. The language would have been much more correct, 
had our author said, there may , indeed , be something in an 
object so terrible or offensive , that the horror or disgust which 
it excites may overbear. Terrible or offensive , would then 
have expressed the qualities of an object; horror or disgust , 
the corresponding sentiments which these qualities produce 
in the mind. 

In the latter part of the sentence also, there are several 
inaccuracies. When he "says, there will be such a mixture 
of delight in the very disgust it gives us , as any of these three 
qualifications are most conspicuous , the construction seems 
hardly grammatical. He certainly meant to say, such a 
mixture of delight as is proportioned to the degree in which 
any of these three qualifications are conspicuous. The plu¬ 
ral verb are , is improperly joined to any of these three quali¬ 
fications ; for as any is here used distributively, and means 
any one of these three qualifications , the corresponding verb 
ought to have been singular. 

4 By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any single 
object, but the largeness of a whole view, considered as one 
entire piece.’ 

A part of this sentence, it will be recollected, was criti¬ 
cised in a former lecture, and corrected in the following 
manner : By greatness , I do not mean the bulk of any single 
object only, but the largeness of a whole view. As the closing 
phrase, considered as one entire piece , is deficient, both in 
dignity and propriety, it might better have been altogetnt/ 
omitted. 

‘ Such are the prospects of an open champaign country, a 
vast uncultivated desert, of huge heaps of mountains, high 
rocks and precipices, or a wide expanse of waters, where 
we are not struck with the novelty, or beauty of the sight, 
but with that rude kind of magnificence which appears in 
many of these stupendous works of nature.’ 

This sentence is, in the main, beautiful. The objects 
presented are all of them noble, selected with judgment, 
arranged with propriety, and accompanied with proper 
epithets. The sentence, however, it must be observed, is 
too loosely, and not very grammatically connected with the 
preceding one. He says, such are the prospects ; such , sig¬ 
nifies of that nature or quality ; which necessarily presup¬ 
poses some adjective, or word descriptive of quality, going 
before, to which it refers But in the foregoing sentence 


j70 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect. 2\ 

there is no su ',h adjective. He had spoken of greatness in 
the abstract only ; and therefore such has no distinct ante¬ 
cedent to which we can refer it. The sentence would have 
been introduced with more grammatical propriety, by saying, 
to this class belong , or under this head are ranged the pros¬ 
pects , &c. The of which is prefixed to huge heaps of moun¬ 
tains, is superfluous, and has, perhaps, been an error in the 
printing. The word many, also, preceding of these stupen¬ 
dous works of nature, might better have been omitted, as 
it seems to except some of them. 

‘ Our imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to 
grasp at any thing that is too big for its capacity. We are 
flung into a pleasing astonishment at such unbounded views; 
and feel a delightful stillness and amazement in the soul, at 
the apprehension of them.’ 

The language here is elegant, and several of the expres¬ 
sions remarkably happy. There is nothing which requires 
any animadversion except the close, at the apprehension of 
them. This is not only languid and enfeebling, but the 
apprehension of views, is a phrase destitute of all propriety, 
and, indeed, scarcely intelligible. Had this adjection been 
entirely omitted, it would have been a great improvement. 

‘ The mind of man naturally hates every thing that looks 
like a restraint upon it, and is apt to fancy itself under a 
sort of confinement, when the sight is pent up in a narrow 
compass, and shortened on every side by the neighborhood 
of walls and mountains. On the contrary, a spacious hori- 
wn is an image of liberty, where the eye has room to range 
abroad, to expatiate at large on the immensity of its vietVs, 
and to luse itself amidst the variety of objects, that offer 
themselves to its observation. Such wide and undetermined 
prospects are pleasing to the fancy, as the speculations of 
eternity, or infinitude, are to the understanding.’ 

Our author’s style appears here in all that native beauty 
which cannot be too much praised. The numbers flow 
smoothly, and with a graceful harmony. The words carry 
a certain amplitude and fullness, well suited to the nature of 
the subject; and the members of the periods rise in a grada¬ 
tion accommodated to the rise of the thought. 

‘ But if there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with 
this grandeur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven adorned with 
stars and meteors, or the spacious landscape cut out into 
rivers, woods, rocks, and meadows, the pleasure still grows 
upon us as it arises from more than a single principle.’ 


Lect. 21.] OF MR. ADDISON’S STYLE. 17 

Had the article prefixed to beauty , in the beginning of this 
sentence, been omitted, the style would have been improved. 
And instead of a landscape cut into rivers , &c., diversified 
by rivers, &c., would have been better. 

‘ Every thing that is new or uncommon, r^'ses a pleasure 
in the imagination, because it fills the soul with an agreeable 
surprise, gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an idea of which 
it was not before possessed. We are, indeed, so often con¬ 
versant with one set of objects, and tired out with so many 
repeated shows of the same things, that whatever is new or 
uncommon contributes a little to vary human life, and to 
divert our minds, for a while, with the strangeness of its 
appearance. It serves us for a kind of refreshment, and 
takes off from the satiety we are apt to complain of in our 
usual and ordinary entertainments.’ 

Though the style in these sentences flows in an easy and 
agreeable manner, yet it is necessary to observe, that there 
are two phrases which may he altered to advantage. The 
first is the following— raises a pleasure in the imagination, 
which is certainly flat and feeble, and might easily be 
amended by saying, affords pleasure to the imagination; 
and the second is towards the end, where two of’s grate 
harshly on the ear— takes off from that satiety we are apt to 
complain of Here the correction is as easily made as in the 
other case, by substituting, diminishes that satiety of which 
we are apt to complain. 

‘ It is this which bestows charms on a monster, and makes 
even the imperfections of nature please us. It is this that 
recommends variety, where the mind is every instant called 
off to something new, and the attention not suffered to dwell 
too long, and waste itself on any particular object. It is this, 
likewise, that improves what is great or beautiful, and 
makes it afford the mind a double entertainment.’ 

Still the style proceeds with perspicuity, grace, and har¬ 
mony. The full and ample assertion with which each of 
these sentences is introduced, frequent on many occasions 
with our author, is here proper and seasonable; as it was 
his intention to magnify, as much as possible, the effect of 
novelty and variety, and to draw our attention to them. His 
frequent use of that instead of which , is another peculiarity 
of his style; hut, on this occasion in particular, cannot he 
commended; as, it is this tchich, seems, in every view, to be 
better than, it is this that, three times repeated. 

‘ Groves, fields, and meadows, are, at any reason of the 


172 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect.21. 

year, pleasant to look upon ; but never so much as in the 
opening of the spring, when they are all new and fresh, 
with their first gloss upon them, and not yet too much accus¬ 
tomed and familiar to the eye.’ 

In the expression, never so much as in the opening of 
spring , there appears to be a small error in grammar; for 
when the construction is filled up, it must be read, never so 
much pleasant. Had he, to avoid this, said never so much so , 
the grammatical error would have been prevented, but the 
language would still have been awkward. Better to have 
said, but never so agreeable as in the opening of the spring. 

‘ For this reason, there is nothing that more enlivens a 
prospect than rivers, jetdeaus, or falls of water, where the 
scene is perpetually shifting and entertaining the sight, every 
moment, with something that is new. We are quickly tired 
with looking at hills and vallies, where every thing con¬ 
tinues fixed and settled, in the same place and posture ; but 
find our thoughts a little agitated and relieved at the sight 
of such objects as are ever in motion, and sliding away from 
beneath the eye of the beholder.’ 

The first of these sentences is connected in too loose a 
manner with that which immediately preceded it. When 
he says, for this reason there is nothing which more enlivens, 
&c., we are entitled to look for the reason in what he had 
just before said. But there we find no reason for what he is 
now going to assert, except that groves and meadows are 
most pleasant in the spring. It is, indeed, one of the defects 
of this amiable writer, that his sentences are often too negli¬ 
gently connected with one another ; and though his meaning 
may be gathered from the tenor of his discourse, yet his 
negligence prevents his sense from striking us with that 
force and evidence, which a more accurate juncture of parts 
would have produced. The close, however, is uncommonly 
fine, and carries as much expressive harmony as the lan¬ 
guage can admit. It seems to paint what he is describing, 
at once to the eye and the ear. Such objects as are ever in 
motion and sliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder. 

6 But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to 
the soul than beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret 
satisfaction and complacency through the imagination, and 
gives a finishing to any thing that is great or uncommon. 
The very first discovery of it strikes the mind with an 
inward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight through 
all the faculties.’ 


Lect. 21.] OF MR. ADDISON’S STYLE. 17 3 

Some degree of verbosity may be here discovered, as 
phrases are repeated which are little more than the echo 
of one another ; but, at the same time, it must be admitted, 
that this full and flowing style, even though it be somewhat 
redundant, is not unsuitable to the gayety of the subject on 
which the author is entering, and is more allowable here 
than it would have been on some other occasions. 

4 There is not, perhaps, any real beauty or deformity more 
in one piece of matter than another; because we might 
have been so made, that whatever now appears loathsome to 
us, might have shown itself agreeable ; but we find by expe¬ 
rience, that there are several modifications of matter, which 
the mind, without any previous consideration, pronounces at 
first sight beautiful or deformed.’ 

In this sentence there is nothing to be noticed, except that 
the word more, towards the beginning, is not in its proper 
place, and that the preposition in, is wanting before another. 
The phrase ought to have stood thus : Beauty or deformity 
in one piece of matter, more than in another. 

‘ Thus we see, that every different species of sensible 
creatures, has its different notions of beauty, and that each 
of them is most affected with the beauties of its own kind. 
This is no where more remarkable, than in birds of the same 
shape and proportion, where we often see the male deter¬ 
mined in his courtship by the single grain of tincture of a 
feather, and never discovering any charms but in the color 
of its species.’ 

Neither is there here any particular elegance of language. 
Different sense of beauty, in the beginning, would have been 
better than different notions of beauty ; and at the close, the 
author should not have used the neuter gender in the phrase, 
color of its species, particularly as he had said in the same 
sentence, that the male was determined in his courtship. 

‘ There is a second kind of beauty, that we find in the 
several products of art and nature, which does not work in 
the imagination with that warmth and violence, as the beauty 
that appears in our proper species, but is apt, however, to 
raise in us a secret delight, and a kind of fondness for the 
places or objects in which we discover it.’ 

Still we find little to praise. This second kind of beauty, 
he says, we find in the several products of art and nature. 
He doubtless means, not in all, but in several of the products 
of art and nature , and ought so to have expressed himself; 
and in the place of products , to have used also the more p*o- 

15 * 


74 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect. 21. 

per word 'productions. When he adds, that this kind of 
beauty does not work in the imagination with that warmth 
and violence as the beauty that appears in our proper spe¬ 
cies ; the language would certainly have been more pure 
and elegant, had he said, that it does not work upon the 
imagination with such warmth and violence, as the beauty 
that appears in our own species. 

‘ This consists either in the gayety or variety of colors, in 
the symmetry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement 
and disposition of bodies, or in a just mixture and concur¬ 
rence of all together. Among these several kinds of beauty, 
the eye takes most delight in colors.’ 

To the language here, no objection can be made. 

‘ We no where meet with a more glorious or pleasing 
show in nature, than what appears in the heavens at the 
rising and setting of the sun, which is wholly made up of 
those different stains of light, that show themselves in 
clouds of a different situation.’ 

The chief ground of criticism on this sentence, is the dis¬ 
jointed situation of the relative which. Grammatically it 
refers to the rising and setting sun; but the author meant 
that it should refer to the show which appears in the heavens 
at that time. , It is too common among authors, when they 
are writing without much care, to make such particles as 
this and which , refer not to any particular antecedent word, 
but to the tenor of some phrase, or, perhaps, the scope of 
some whole sentence, which has gone before. This prac¬ 
tice saves them trouble in arranging their words and periods ; 
Dut though it may leave their meaning intelligible, yet it 
renders it much less perspicuous, determined, and precise, 
than it might otherwise have been. 

‘ For this reason we find the poets, who are always ad¬ 
dressing themselves to the imagination, borrowing more of 
their epithets from colors than from any other topic.’ 

On this sentence nothing occurs to be remarked, except 
that it is too loosely connected with the one that immediately 
precedes it. 

‘ As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, 
or beautiful, and is still more pleased, the more it finds of 
these perfections, in the same object, so it is capable of 
receiving a new satisfaction by the assistance of another 
sense.’ 

Another sense , here means, grammatically, another sense 
than fancy; for there is nothing else in the period to which 


Lect. 21.] OF MR. ADDISON’S STYLE. 175 

it can at all be opposed. He had not, for some time, made 
mention of any sense, whatever. He forgot to add, what was 
unquestionably in his thoughts, another sense than that of 
sight . 

‘ Thus any continued sound, as the music of birds, or a 
fall of water, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, 
and makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the 
place which lie before him. Thus, if there arises a fre¬ 
quency of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasures 
of the imagination, and make even the colors and verdure of 
the landscape appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both 
senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together 
than when they enter the mind separately ; as the different 
colors of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one 
another, and receive an additional beauty from the ad van 
tage of their situation.’ 

With regard to the style here, nothing appears exception¬ 
able. The flow, both of language and of ideas, is very 
agreeable. The author continues, to the end, the same 
pleasing train of thought, which had run through the rest 
of the paper; and leases us agreeably employed in com¬ 
paring together different degrees of beauty. 


LECTURE XXII. 

CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN 
NO. 413 OF THE SPECTATOR. 

4 Though in yesterday’s paper we considered how every 
thing that ls great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the 
imagination with pleasure, we must own, that it is impossi¬ 
ble for us to assign the necessary cause of this pleasure, 
because we know neither the nature of an idea, nor the sub¬ 
stance of a human soul, which might help us to discover the 
conformity or disagreeableness of the one to the other ; and 
therefore, for want of such a light, all that we can do in 
speculations of this kind, is, to reflect on those operations of 
the soul that are most agreeable, and to range, under their 
proper heads, what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind, 
without being able to trace out the several necessary and 
efficient causes from whence the pleasure or displeasure 
arises.’ 

This sentence, considered as an introductory one, must 
be acknowledged to be very faulty. An introductory sen¬ 
tence should never contain any thing that may fatigue or 
puzzle the reader. When an author is entering on a new 
branch of his subject, informing us of what he has done, 
and what he proposes farther to do, we naturally expect that 
he should express himself in the simplest manner possible. 
But the sentence now before us is crowded and indistinct; 
containing three separate propositions, which, as shall after¬ 
wards be shown, required separate sentences to unfold them. 
Mr. Addison’s chief excellence lay in describing and paint¬ 
ing. There he is great; but in methodising, he is not so 
eminent. 

Though in yesterday's paper we considered . The import 
ot though is notwithstanding that. When it appears in the 
beginning of a sentence, its relative, generally, is yet ; and 
it is employed to warn us, after we have been informed of 
some truth, that we are not to infer from it some other thing 
whicti we might, perhaps, have expected to follow. But it is 
evident, that there was no such opposition between the sub¬ 
ject of yesterday’s paper, and what the author is now going 
to say, as to render the use of this adversative particle 


Lect. 22.] CRITICAL EXAMINATION. 177 

though , either necessary or proper in the introduction. We 
considered how every thing that is great, new, or beautiful, is 
apt to affect the imagination with pleasure. The adverb 
how signifies, either the means by which, or the manner in 
which, something is done. But neither one nor the other 
of these had been considered by our author. He had illus¬ 
trated the fact alone, that they do affect the imagination with 
pleasure; arid, with respect to the how , he is so far from 
having considered it, that he is just now going to show that 
it cannot be explained, and that we must rest contented with 
the knowledge of the fact alone, and of its purpose and final 
cause. The substance of a human soul , is certainly a very 
uncouth expression, and there appears no reason why he 
should have varied from the word nature , which would have 
been applicable equally to idea and to soul. 

Which might help us, our author proceeds, to discover the 
conformity or disagreeableness of the one to the other. The 
which, at the beginning of this member of the period, is 
surely ungrammatical, as it is a relative, without any antece¬ 
dent in all the sentence. It refers, by the construction, to 
the nature of an idea, or the substance of a human soul; but 
this is by no means the reference which the author intended. 
His meaning is, that our knowing the nature of an idea, and 
the substance of a human soul, might help us to discover the 
conformity or disagreeableness of the one to the other ; and, 
therefore, the syntax absolutely required the word knowledge 
to have been inserted as the antecedent to which. The 
phrase of discovering the conformity or disagreeableness of 
the one to the other is likewise exceptionable; for disagree¬ 
ableness neither forms a proper contrast to the other word, 
conformity , nor expresses what the author here meant—that 
is, a certain unsuitableness or want of conformity to the 
nature of the soul. In fact, it would have been much better 
to have omitted this member of the sentence altogether. 

And therefore, the sentence goes on, for wavit of such a 
light, all that we can do in speculations of this kind, is, to re¬ 
flect on those operations of the soul that are most agreeable , 
and to range under their proper heads what is pleasing or 
displeasing to the mind. The two expressions in the be¬ 
ginning of this member, therefore, and for want of such a 
light, evidently refer to the same thing; and one or the 
other of them, therefore, had better been omitted. Instead 
of to range under their proper heads, the language would 
have been smoother, if their had been left out. Had the 


78 CRITICAL EXAMINATION t Liu t. 22. 

whole of the last member of the sentence been omitted, and 
the period closed with the words, pleasing or displeasing to 
the mind , it would have been an improvement; as all that 
follows suggests no idea that had not been fully conveyed 
in the preceding part of the sentence. 

Having now finished the analysis of this long sentence, 
we proceed in the examination of the sentences that follow. 

‘ Final causes lie more bare and open to our observation, 
as there are often a great variety that belong to the same 
effect; and these, though they are not altogether so satis¬ 
factory, are generally more useful than the other, as they 
give us greater occasion of admiring the goodness and wis¬ 
dom of the first contriver.’ 

Though some difference might be traced between the 
sense of bare and open , 'yet, as they are here employed, they 
are so nearly synonymous, that one of them was sufficient. 
It would have been enough to have said, Final causes lie 
more open to observation . In the phrase, a great variety 
that belong to the same effect, the expression, strictly con¬ 
sidered, is not altogether proper. The accessory is pro¬ 
perly said to belong to the principal; not the principal to 
the accessory. Now, an affect is considered as the accessory 
or consequence of its cause ; and therefore, though we might 
well say a variety of effects belong to the same cause, it 
seems not so proper to say, that a variety of causes belong to. 
the same effect. 

‘ One of the final causes of our delight in any thing that 
is great, may be this: The Supreme Author of our being 
has so formed the soul of man, that nothing but himself can 
be its last, adequate, and proper happiness. Because, there¬ 
fore, a great part of our happiness must arise from the con¬ 
templation of his being, that he might give our souls a just 
relish of such contemplation, he has made them naturally 
delight in the apprehension of what is great or unlimited.’ 

The concurrence of two conjunctions, because therefore, 
forms rather a harsh and unpleasing beginning of the last 
of these sentences ; and, in the close, one would think that 
the author might have devised a happier word than appre¬ 
hension, to be applied to what is unlimited. 

‘ Our admiration, which is a very pleasing motion of the 
mind, immediately rises at the consideration of any object 
that takes up a good deal of room in the fancy, and, by con¬ 
sequence, will improve into the highest pitch of astonish¬ 
ment and devotion, when we contemplate his nature, that is 


Lect.22.] OF MR. ADDISON’S STYLE. 179 

neither circumscribed by time nor place, nor to be compre¬ 
hended by the largest capacity of a created being.’ 

Here our author’s style rises beautifully along with the 
thought. However inaccurate he may sometimes be, when 
coolly philosophising, yet, whenever his fancy is awakened 
by description, or his mind warmed with some glowing sen¬ 
timent, he immediately becomes great, and discovers, in his 
language, the hand of a master. 

6 He has annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of any 
thing that is new or uncommon, that he might encourage 
us in the pursuit of knowledge, and engage us to search 
into the wonders of creation; for every new idea brings 
such a pleasure along with it, as rewards the pain we have 
taken in its acquisition, and consequently, serves as a motive 
to put us on fresh discoveries.’ 

The language in this sentence is clear and precise : only, 
we cannot but observe, in this, and the two following sen¬ 
tences, which are constructed in the same manner, a strong 
proof of Mr. Addison’s unreasonable partiality to the particle ^ 
that , in preference to which. Annexed a secret pleasure to 
the idea of any thing that is new or uncommon , that he might 
encourage us. Here, the first that is a relative pronoun, 
and the next that is a conjunction. This confusion of sounds 
serves to embarrass style. It would certainly have been 
much better to have said, the idea of any thing which is new 
or uncommon , that he might encourage. The expression 
with which the sentence concludes, a motive to put us upon 
fresh discoveries , is flat and improper. He should have 
said, serves as a motive , inciting us to make fresh disco¬ 
veries. 

‘ He has made every thing that is beautiful in our own 
species, pleasant, that all creatures might be tempted to mul¬ 
tiply their kind, and fill the world with inhabitants ; for, ’tis 
very remarkable, that, wherever nature is crost in the 
production of a monster, (the result of any unnatural mix¬ 
ture,) the breed is incapable of propagating its likeness, and 
of founding a new order of creatures; so that, unless all 
animals wefe allured by the beauty of their own species, 
generation would be at an end, and the earth unpeopled.’ 

Here we must, however reluctant, return to the employ¬ 
ment of censure; for this is among the worst sentences our 
author ever wrote. Taken as a whole, it is extremely de 
ficient in unity. Instead of a complete proposition, it con¬ 
tains a sort of chain of reasoning, the links of which are so 


80 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect 22 

jjadly put together, that it is with difficulty we can trace the 
connection; and unless we take the trouble of perusing it 
several times, it will leave nothing on the mind but an 
indistinct and obscure impression. 

Besides this general fault, respecting the meaning, it con¬ 
tains some great inaccuracies in language. First, God’s 
having made every thing which is beautiful in our species, 
(that is, in the human species,) pleasant, is certainly no mo¬ 
tive for all creatures, for beasts, and birds, and tishes, to 
multiply their kind. What the author meant to say, though 
he has expressed himself in so erroneous a manner, un¬ 
doubtedly was, 4 In all the different orders of creatures, he 
has made every thing, which is beautiful in their own spe¬ 
cies, pleasant, that all creatures might be tempted to multi¬ 
ply their kind.’ The second member of the sentence is still 
worse. For it is very remarkable, that wherever nature is 
crost in the production of a monster , &c. The reason here 
given for the preceding assertion, intimated by the casual 
particle for, is far from being obvious. The connection of 
thought is not readily apparent, and would have acquired an 
intermediate step, to render it distinct. But what does he 
mean, by nature being crost in the production of a monster? 
One might understand him to mean, 4 disappointed in its 
intention of producing a monster;’ as when we say, one is 
crost in his pursuits, we mean, that he is .disappointed in 
accomplishing the end that he intended. Had he said, crost 
by the production of a monster , the sense would have been 
more intelligible. But the proper rectification of the ex¬ 
pression would be to insert the adverb as, before the prepo¬ 
sition in, after this manner; whenever nature is crost, as in 
the production of a monster. 

4 In the last place, he has made every thing that is beauti¬ 
ful, in all other objects, pleasant, or rather has made so 
many objects appear beautiful, that he might render the 
whole creation more gay and delightful. He has given 
almost every thing about us the power of raising an agree¬ 
able idea in the imagination ; so that it is impossible for us 
to behold his works with coldness or indifference, and to 
survey so many beauties without a secret satisfaction and 
complacency.’ 

The idea, here, is so just, and the language so clear, flow¬ 
ing, and agreeable, that, to remark any diffuseness which 
may be attributed to these sentences, would be justly 
esteemed hypercritical. 


Lfct. 22. J OF MR. ADDISON’S STYLE. 181 

‘ Things would make but a poor appearance to the eye, 
if we saw them only in their proper figures and motions: 
and what reason can we assign for their exciting in us many 
of those ideas which are different from any thing that exists 
in the objects themselves, (for such are light and colors,) 
were it not to add supernumerary ornaments to the universe, 
and make it more agreeable to the imagination?’ 

In this sentence, in the phrase exciting in us many of 
those ideas which are different from any thing that exists in 
the objects , there is great inaccuracy. No one, surely, ever 
imagined that our ideas exist in the objects. Ideas, it is 
agreed on all hands, can exist no where but in the mind. 
What our author should have said, is, exciting in us many 
ideas of qualities which are different from any thing that 
exists in the objects. The ungraceful parenthesis which 
follows, for such are light and colors , had far better have 
been avoided, and incorporated with the rest of the sentence. 

‘ We are every where entertained with pleasing shows 
and apparitions. We discover imaginary glory in tire 
heavens and in the earth, and see some of this visionary 
beauty poured out upon the whole creation ; but what a 
rough unsightly sketch of nature should we be entertained 
with, did all her coloring disappear, and the several dis¬ 
tinctions of light and shade vanish? In short, our souls 
are delightfully lost and bewildered in a pleasing delusion ; 
and- we walk about like the enchanted hero of a romance, 
who sees beautiful castles, woods, and meadows ; and at the 
same time, hears the warbling of birds and the purling of 
streams ; but, upon the finishing of some secret spell, the 
fantastic scene breaks up, and the disconsolate knight finds 
himself on a barren heath, or in a solitary desert.’ 

After having been obliged to point out several inaccu- 
lacies, we return with much more pleasure to the display 
of beauties, for which we have now full scope; for these two 
sentences are such as do the highest honor to Mr. Addison’s 
talents as a writer. Warmed with the idea he had seized, 
his delicate sensibility to the beauty of nature, is finely dis¬ 
played in the illustration of it. The style is flowing and 
full, without being too diffuse. It is flowery, but not gaudy ; 
elevated, but not ostentatious. 

Amid this blaze of beauties, however, it is necessary for 
us to notice one or two inaccuracies. In the phrase, what a 
rough unsightly sketch of na,ture should we be entertahied 
with , the preposition with should have been placed at the 


182 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect.22. 

beginning, rather than at the end of this member; and the 
word entertained , is both improperly applied, and carelessly 
repeated from the former part of the sentence. With what 
a rough unsightly sketch of nature should we be presented , 
would, here, have been more proper. At the close of the 
second sentence, where it is said, the fantastic scene breaks 
up, the expression is lively, but not altogether justifiable. 
An assembly breaks up; a scene closes or disappears. Ex¬ 
cepting these two slight inaccuracies, the style, here, is not 
only correct, but perfectly elegant. 

‘ It is not improbable, that something like this may be the 
state of the soul after its first separation, in respect of the 
images it will receive from matter; though, indeed, the 
ideas of colors are so pleasing and beautiful in the imagina¬ 
tion, that it is possible the soul will not be deprived of them, 
but, perhaps, find them excited by some other occasional 
cause, as they are at present, by the different impressions of 
the subtle matter on the organ of the sight.’ 

In this sentence there is a sensible falling off from the 
beauty of what went before. It is deficient in unity—its 
parts are not sufficiently compacted—it contains, besides, 
some faulty expressions. When it is said, something like 
this may be the state of the soul , to the pronoun this , there is 
no determined antecedent; it refers to the general import of 
the preceding description, which renders the style very 
obscure— the state of the soul after its first separation , 
appears to be an incomplete phrase, and first , seems a use¬ 
less, and even an improper word. It would have been more 
distinct had he said, state of the soul immediately on its sepa¬ 
ration from the body. 

‘ I have here supposed, that my reader is acquainted with 
that great modern discovery, which is at present universally 
acknowledged by all the inquirers into natural philosophy : 
namely, that light and colors, as apprehended by the imagi¬ 
nation, are only ideas in the mind, and not qualities that 
have any existence in matter. As this is a truth which has 
been proved incontestably by many modern philosophers, 
and is, indeed, one of the finest speculations in that science, 
if the English reader would see the notion explained at 
large, he may find in the eighth chapter of the second book 
of Mr. Locke’s Essay on the Human Understanding.’ 

In these two concluding sentences, the author appears tQ ; 
write rather carelessly. In the first of them, a manifest 
tautology occurs, when he speaks of what is universality 


Lect. 22.] OF MR ADDISON’S STYLE. 183 

acknowledged by all inquirers. In the second, when he 
calls a truth which has been incontestibly proved, first, a 
speculation , and afterwards a notion, the language is, cer¬ 
tainly, not very accurate. When he adds, one of the finest 
speculations in that science , it does not, at first, appear what 
science he means. One would imagine he meant to refer to 
modern philosophers; for natural philosophy (to which, 
doubtless, he refers) stands at much too great a distance to 
be the proper antecedent to the pronoun that. The circum¬ 
stance towards the close, is corrected by Lord Karnes thus: 
the English reader , if he would see the notion explained at 
large , may find it, &c. 


LECTURE XXIII. 


ELOaUENCE, OR PUBLIC SPEAKING—HIS¬ 
TORY OF ELOQUENCE—GRECIAN 
ELOQUENCE—DEMOSTHENES. 

Having finished that part of the course which relates to 
language and style, we are now to examine the subjects upon 
which style is employed. We begin with eloquence, or pub¬ 
lic speaking. In treating of this, we shall consider the 
different kinds and subjects of public speaking; the manner 
suited to each ; the proper distribution and management of 
all the parts of a discourse ; and the proper pronunciation or 
delivery of it. But before we enter upon any of these heads, 
it may be proper to take a view of the nature of eloquence 
in general, and of the state in which it has subsisted in 
different ages and countries. 

Eloquence is the art of persuasion ; or the art of speaking 
in such a manner as to attain the end for which we speak. 
Its most essential requisites are, solid argument, clear method, 
and an appearance of sincerity in the speaker, with such 
graces of style and utterance, as shall invite and command 
attention. Good sense must be its foundation. Without 
this, no man can be truly eloquent; for fools can persuade 
none but fools. In order to persuade a man of sense we 
must first convince him ; and this can only be done, by 
satisfying his understanding of the reasonableness of what 
we propose to his consideration. This leads us to observe, 
that convincing and persuading, though sometimes con- 
| founded, are of very different import. Conviction affects the 
understanding only ; persuasion, the will and the practice. 
It is the business of the philosopher to convince us of truth; 
it is the business of the orator to persuade us to act agree* 


Having finished that part of the course which relates to language,and 
style, what are we now to examine ? With what do we begin; and in 
what order shall we treat of it 1 But before we enter upon any of these 
heads, a review of what may be proper I What is eloquence ; and what 
are its most essential requisites ? What must be its foundation; and why ? 
In order to persuade a man of sense, what is necessary; and how only ear; 
this be done I To what observation does this lead; and how is this illus¬ 
trated ? 



Lect. 23.J PUBLIC SPEAKING. 185 

ably to it, by engaging- our affections in its favor. Con¬ 
viction is, however, one avenue to the heart; and it is that 
which an orator must first attempt to gain ; for no persuasion 
can be stable, which is not founded on conviction. But the 
orator must not be satisfied with convincing only : he must 
address himself to the passions ; he must paint to the fancy, 
and touch the heart; and hence, besides solid argument and 
clear method, all the captivating and interesting arts, both 
of composition and pronunciation, enter into the idea of 
eloquence. 

Eloquence may be considered as consisting of three kinds, 
or degrees. The first, and lowest, is that which aims only 
to please the hearers. Such, generally, is the eloquence of 
panegyrics, inaugural orations, addresses to great men, and 
other harangues of this kind. This ornamental sort of com¬ 
position is not altogether to be rejed ed. It may innocently 
amuse and entertain the mind ; and may be connected, at 
the same time, with very useful sentiments. But it must be 
acknowledged, that where the speaker has no farther aim 
than merely to shine and to please, there is great danger of 
art being strained into ostentation, and of the composition 
becoming tiresome and insipid. 

A second and a higher degree of eloquence is, when the 
speaker aims not merely to please, but likewise to inform, to 
instruct, and to convince : when his art is exerted in re¬ 
moving prejudices against himself and his cause ; in choos¬ 
ing the most proper arguments, stating them with the greatest 
force, arranging them in the best order, expressing and 
delivering them with propriety and beauty; and thereby 
preparing us to pass that judgment, or embrace that side of 
the cause, to which he desires to bring us. Within this 
compass, chiefly, is employed the eloquence of the bar. 

But there is a third, and still higher degree of eloquence, _ 

in which a greater power is exerted over the human mind, 
and by which we are not only convinced, but are interested, 


Of conviction, what is farther observed ; and why must not the orator 
be satisfied with it alone 7 Besides solid argument, therefore, what must 
enter into the idea o.f eloquence 7 Of how many degrees does eloquence 
consist; and what is the first 7 Of this, what are examples 7 Why is 
not this kind of composition to be rejected; but of it, what must be 
acknowledged 1 What is the second degree of eloquence 7 Here, for 
what purpose is his art exerted; and within this compass what is employed 7 
Of the third degree of eloquence, what is observed; and what is its effect 
upon us 7 


16 * 



188 ELOQUENCE OR [Lect. 23. 

agitated, and carried along with the speaker : our passions 
rise with his; we enter into all his emotions; we love, we 
hate, we resent, according as he inspires us; and are 
prompted to resolve, or to act, with vigor and warmth. De¬ 
bate, in popular assemblies, opens the most extensive field 
for the exercise of this species of eloquence ; and the pulpit 
also admits it. 

It is necessary here to remark, that this high species of 
eloquence is always the offspring of passion. By passion 
we mean that state of the mind in which it is agitated and 
fired by some object it has in view. A man may convince, and 
even persuade others to act, by mere reason and argument; 
but that degree of eloquence which gains the admiration of 
mankind, and properly distinguishes one as an orator, is 
never formed without warmth or passion. Passion, when 
in such a degree as to rouse and kindle the mind, without 
throwing it out of the possession of itself, is universally found 
to exalt all the human powers. It renders the mind infi¬ 
nitely more enlightened, more penetrating, more vigorous 
and masterly, than it is in its calm moments. A man, 
actuated by a strong passion, becomes much greater than he 
is at other times. He is conscious of more strength and 
force; he utters greater sentiments, conceives higher designs, 
and executes them with a boldness and felicity, of which, 
on other occasions, he could not think himself capable. 

The principle, then, being admitted, that all high elo¬ 
quence flows from passion, several consequences follow, the 
mention of which will serve to confirm the principle itself. 
For, hence, the universally acknowledged effect of enthu¬ 
siasm in public speaking, for affecting their audience. 
Hence all studied declamation, and labored ornaments of 
style, which show the mind to he cool and unmoved, are so 
incompatible with persuasive eloquence. Hence, indeed, 
every kind of affectation in gesture and pronunciation, de¬ 
tracts, so much, from the merits of a speaker; and hence, 
the necessity of being, and being believed to be, disinterest 3 d 
and in earnest, in order to persuade. 

These are some of the ideas which have occurred concern- 


Where may it be employed 1 Of this high species of eloquence, what is 
it necessary here to remark; and by it what do we mean 1 What may a 
man do by mere argument; but what remark follows 'l When does pas¬ 
sion exalt all the human powers ; and what is its effect upon the mind 1 
What is observed of a man actuated by a strong passion 1 As all high 
eloquence flows from passion, what consequences follow 1 



Lect. 23.] PUBLIC SPEAKING. 187 

mg eloquence in general; and with which we have thought 
proper to begin, as the foundation of much of what is after¬ 
wards to be suggested. From what has already been said, 
it is evident that eloquence is a high talent, and of great im¬ 
portance in society ; and that it requires both natural genius, 
and much improvement from art. Viewed as the art of 
persuasion, it requires, in its lowest state, soundness of un¬ 
derstanding, and considerable acquaintance with human 
nature ; and, in its higher degrees, it requires, moreover, 
strong sensibility of mind, a lively imagination, joined with 
correctness of judgment, and an extensive command of the 
power of language ; to which must also be added, the graces 
of pronunciation and delivery. We shall now proceed to 
consider in what state eloquence has subsisted in different 
ages and nations. 

In tracing the origin of eloquence, it is not necessary to 
go far back into the early ages of the world, or to search for 
it among the monuments of Eastern or Egyptian antiquity. 
In those ages, it is true, there was a certain kind of eloquence; 
but it was more nearly allied to poetry than to what we pro¬ 
perly call oratory. Whilst the intercourse among men was 
unfrequent, and force and strength were the principal means 
employed in deciding controversies, the arts of oratory and 
persuasion, of reasoning and debate, could be little known. 
The first empires that arose, the Assyrian and Egyptian, 
were of the despotic kind. A single person, or at most, a 
few, held the reins of government. The multitude were 
accustomed to a blind obedience ; they were driven, not 
persuaded ; and, consequently, none of those refinements of 
society, which make public speaking an object of importance, 
were as yet introduced. 

It is not till the rise of the Grecian republics, that we 
perceive any remarkable appearance of eloquence as the art 
of persuasion ; and these opened to it such a field as it never 
had before, and, perhaps, has never again, since that time, 
experienced. Greece was divided into a number of little 


From what has already been said of eloquence, what is remarked; and 
viewed as the art of persuasion, what dues it require 1 What shall we 
now proceed to consider 1 In tracing the origin of eloquence, what need 
we not do ; and of the eloquence of those ages, what is remarked 'l When 
could the arts of persuasion and reasoning be little known ; and of the first 
empires that arose what is observed I How is this illustrated 1 When 
does eloquence first appear as the art of persuasion ; and to what extent 
did it there exist'? How was Greece divided; how were these at first 
governed; and what follows 'l 



188 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [Lect. 23. 

states These were governed, at first, by kings, who were 
called tyrants, on whose expulsion from all these states, 
there sprung up a great number of democratical govern¬ 
ments, founded nearly upon the same plan, animated by the 
same high spirit of freedom, mutually jealous, and rivals of 
each other. 

Of these Grecian republics, the most noted, by far, for 
eloquence, and, indeed, for arts of every kind, was Athens. 
The Athenians were an ingenious, quick, sprightly, people ; 
practiced in business, and sharpened by frequent and sudden 
revolutions, which happened in their government. And, 
although they had a senate of five hundred, yet, in the 
general convention of the citizens was placed the last resort; 
and affairs were conducted there, entirely by reasoning, 
speaking, and a skillful application to the passions and inter¬ 
ests of a popular assembly. There, laws were made, peace 
and war decreed, and there the magistrates were chosen : 
for the highest honors of the state were alike open to all; 
nor was the meanest tradesman excluded from a seat in their 
supreme courts. In such a state, eloquence, it is obvious, 
would be much studied, as the surest means of rising to 
influence and power. It was not, however, that which was 
brilliant and showy merely ; but that which was found upon 
trial, to be most effectual for convincing, interesting, and 
persuading the hearers. For there, public speaking was 
not a mere competition for empty applause, but a serious 
contention for the public leading, which was the great object 
both of the men of ambition, and the men of virtue. 

Pisistratus, who subverted the government of Solon, was 
the first who distinguished himself among the Athenians by 
application to the arts of speech. By his ability in these 
arts, he raised himself to the sovereign power ; which, how- 
ver, when he had attained it, he exercised with moderation. 
t the orators who flourished between his time and the 
T doponnesian war, nothing is said in history. Pericles, 
v 10 died about the beginning of that war, was properly t he 
uxst who carried eloquence to a great height—to such a 


Of these Grecian republics, which was the most noted; and of the 
Athenians, what is remarked % Of their senate, and of the convention or 
the citizens, what is observed 1 Why would eloquence, in such a state be 
much studied ; of what kind was it, and why 'l Who was the first that 
distinguished himself by application to the arts of speech ; and by his 
abilities in these arts what did he effect 1 Of his immediate successors 
what is observed 1 



Lect. 23.] GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 189 

height, indeed, that it does not appear he was ever after¬ 
wards surpassed. Besides being a distinguished orator, he 
was a statesman and a general; expert in business, and of 
consummate address. Thirty-nine years he governed 
Athens with absolute sway ; and historians ascribe his in¬ 
fluence, not more to his political talents than to his elo¬ 
quence, which was of that forcible and vehement kind, that 
bore every thing before it, and triumphed over the passions 
and affections of the people. 

The power of eloquence having, after the days of Peri¬ 
cles, become an object of greater consequence than ever, this 
gave birth to a set of men till then unknown, called rheto¬ 
ricians, and sometimes sophists, who arose in multitudes 
during the Peloponnesian war. These sophists joined to 
their art of rhetoric a subtle logic, and were generally a 
sort of metaphysical skeptics. They did not content them¬ 
selves with delivering general instructions concerning 
eloquence to their pupils, and endeavoring to form their 
taste ; but they professed the art of giving them receipts for 
making all sorts of orations ; and of teaching them how to 
speak for, and against, every cause whatever. To them 
the great Socrates opposed himself. By a profound, but 
simple reasoning, he exploded their sophistry; and en¬ 
deavored to recall men’s attention from that abuse of rea¬ 
soning and discourse which began to be in vogue, to natural 
language, and sound and useful thought. 

In the same age, though somewhat later than the philo¬ 
sopher above mentioned, flourished Isocrates, whose writings 
are still extant. He was a professed rhetorician ; and by 
teaching eloquence, he acquired both a great fortune, and 
higher fame than any of his rivals. His orations are full of 
morality and good sentiments ; they are flowing and smooth, 
but too destitute of vigor. He never engaged in public 
affairs, nor pleaded causes ; and, consequently, his orations 
are calculated only for the closet. 

We now pass to the great Demosthenes, in whom eloquence 
shone forth with the highest and most unrivaled splendor. 


What is said of Pericles ; and how long did he govern Athens 1 Of 
what kind was his eloquence ? The power of eloquence having become 
an object of greater consequence than ever, this gave birth to what set of 
men 'l Of these sophists, what is farther remarked 1 Who opposed them; 
and what did he endeavor to do 1 In the same age, who flourished ; and 
what is remarked of him I To whom do we now pass ; and what is said 
of his eloquence I 



190 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [Lect. 23. 

Not formed by nature, either to please or to persuade, he 
struggled with, and surmounted the most formidable im¬ 
pediments. He shut himself up in a cave, that he might 
study with less distraction. He declaimed by the sea-shore, 
that he might be used to the voice of a tumultuous assembly; 
and with pebbles in his mouth, that he might correct a de¬ 
fect in his speech. He practiced at home with a naked 
sword hanging over his shoulder, that he might check an 
ungraceful motion to which he was subject. Hence, the 
example of this great man affords the highest encourage¬ 
ment to every student of eloquence, since it shows how T far 
art and application could avail, for acquiring an excellence 
which nature appeared willing to have denied. 

Despising the affected and florid manner which the 
rhetoricians of that age followed, Demosthenes returned to 
the forcible and manly eloquence of Pericles ; and strength 
and vehemence form the principal characteristics of his 
style. Never had an orator a finer field than Demosthenes 
in his Olynthiacs and Phillippics, which are his capital 
orations; and doubtless, to the greatness of the subject, and 
that integrity and public spirit which breathe in them, they 
owe a large portion of their merit. The subject is, to rouse 
the indignation of his countrymen against Philip of Macedon, 
the public enemy of the liberties of Greece; and to guard 
them against the treacherous measures, by which that crafty 
tyrant endeavored to lull them into a neglect of their danger. 
To attain this end, we see him use every means to animate 
a people, distinguished by justice, humanity, and valor ; but 
in many instances become corrupt and degenerate. He 
boldly accuses them of venality, indolence, and indifference 
to the public good ; while, at the same time, he reminds 
them of their former glory, and of their present resources. 
His contemporary orators, who were bribed by Philip, and 
who persuaded the people to peace, he openly reproaches as 
traitors to their country. He not only prompts to vigorous 
measures, but teaches how they are to be carried into ex- 


Not being formed by nature for an orator, what were his efforts that he 
might become one ? Hence, of his example what is remarked; and why ? 
What art the characteristics of his style ? What is said of the field that 
presented itself to Demosthenes; and to this, what is to be attributed? 
What is the subject; and to attain this end. what course does he pur¬ 
sue ? What is said of his contemporary orators; and how does he treat 
them? Besides prompting to vigorous measures, what does he do ? 



Lect. 23.] GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 191 

ecution. His orations are strongly animated, and full of 
the impetuosity and ardor of public spirit. Hi's composition 
is not distinguished by ornament and splendor. It is an 
energy of thought peculiarly his own, which forms his 
character, and raises him above his species. He seems not 
to attend to words, but to things. We forget the orator, and 
think of the subject. He has no parade and ostentation; no 
studied introductions; hut is like a man full of his subject, 
who, after preparing his audience by a sentence or two, for 
the reception of plain truths, enters directly on business. 

The style of Demosthenes is strong and concise ; though 
sometimes, it must be confessed, harsh and abrupt. His 
words are highly expressive, and his arrangement firm and 
manly. Negligent of lesser graces, he seems to have aimed 
at that sublime which lies in sentiment. His action and 
pronunciation are said to have been uncommonly vehement 
and ardent ; which, from the manner of his writings, we 
should readily believe. His character appears to have been 
of the austere, rather than of the gentle kind. He is always 
grave, serious, passionate ; never degrading himself, nor 
attempting any thing like pleasantry. If his admirable 
eloquence be in any respect faulty, it is, that he sometimes 
borders on the hard and dry. He may be thought to want 
smoothness and grace; which is attributed to his imitating, 
too closely, the manner of Thucydides, who was his great 
model for style, and whose history he is said to have 
transcribed eight times with his own hand. But these de¬ 
fects are more than atoned for, by that masterly force of mas¬ 
culine eloquence, which, as it overpowered all who heard it, 
cannot, in the present day, be read without emotion. 


Of his orations, what is remarked 'l What is said of his composition ; 
and what is farther remarked of him % Of the style of Demosthenes, and ot 
his words,what is observed I What is remarked of his action, and of hi* 
general character 1 If there be any objection to his admirable eloquence, 
what is it; and to what may it be attributed'? But by what are these 
defects more than atoned for'? 


ANALYSIS. 


Eloquence. 

1. The definition of eloquence. 

A. Conviction and persuasion. 

2. The degrees of eloquence. 

A. To please only. 

B. To please and to instruct. 

C. To interest and to agitate, 

a. The offspring of passion. 


3. The character of eloquence. 

4. Its origin. 

A. Athens. 

a. Pisistratus. 

b. Pericles. 

c. The sophists. 

d. Isocrates. 

e. Demosthenes—his style. 






LECTURE XXIV. 

ROMAN ELOQUENCE—CICERO—MODERN 
ELOQUENCE. 

Having treated of the rise of eloquence, and of its state 
among the Greeks, we now proceed to consider its progress 
among the Romans, where we shall find one model, at least, 
in its most splendid and illustrious form. The Romans were 
long a martial nation, and unskilled in arts of every kind. 
Arts were not known among them till after the conquest of 
Greece ; and the Romans always acknowledged the Gre 
cians as their masters in every point of learning. 

Grecia capta ferum victorum cepit et artes 

Intulit agresti Latio. Horace. 

When conquer’d Greece brought in her captive arts. 

She triumph’d o’er her savage conquerors’ hearts; 

Taught our rough verse its numbers to refine, 

And our rude style with elegance to shine. Francis. 

As the Romans derived their eloquence, poetry, and learn¬ 
ing from the Greeks, so they must he confessed to have been 
far inferior to them in genius for all these accomplishments. 
They had neither their vivacity nor sensibility ; their pas¬ 
sions were not so easily moved, nor their conceptions so 
lively ; in comparison with them, they were a phlegmatic 
people. Their language resembled their character : it wa« 
regular, firm, and stately; but wanted that expressive sim 
plicity, that flexibility to suit every different species of com¬ 
position, for which the Greek tongue is peculiarly distin¬ 
guished. And hence, by comparison, we shall always find, 
that in the Greek productions there is more native genius ; 
in the Roman, more regularity and art. 

As the Roman government, during the republic, was of 

Having treated of eloquence among the Greeks, among whom do we 
now proceed to consider its progress; and what shall we there find 1 Of 
the Romans, and of the arts among them, what is remarked ? What 
illustration of this remark is given from Horace 'l As the Romans derived 
their eloquence and poetry from the Greeks, so, of them, what must be 
confessed; and how is this illustrated 7 How did their language compare 
with that of the Greeks; and hence, by comparison, what shall we always 
find 1 As the Roman government, during the republic, was of the popu¬ 
lar kind, what followed ; but of what kind was it ? 




Lect. 24.] CICERO. 193 

the popular kind, public speaking, no doubt, early became 
the means of acquiring power, honor, and distinction. But 
in the rude, unpolished times of the state, their speaking 
could hardly desferve the name of eloquence. It was not 
till a short time preceding the age of Cicero, that the Ro¬ 
man orators rose into any reputation. Crassus and Anto- 
nius seem to have been the most eminent; but as none of 
their productions are extant, nor any of Hortensius’s, who 
was Cicero’s rival at the bar, it is not necessary to transcribe 
what Cicero has said of them, and of the character of their 
eloquence. 

The object most worthy of our attention is Cicero himself, 
whose name alone suggests every thing that is splendid in 
oratory. With his life and character, in other respects, we 
are not at present concerned. We shall view him only as 
an eloquent speaker,' and endeavor to point out both his vir¬ 
tues and his defects. His virtues are, beyond doubt, super¬ 
latively great. In all his orations, his art is conspicuous. 
He begins, generally, with a regular exordium, and with 
much address prepossesses the hearers, and studies to gain 
their affections. His method is clear, and his arguments 
are arranged with great propriety. In greater clearness ol 
method, he has the advantage over Demosthenes. Every 
thing appears in its proper place ; he never attempts to move 
till he has endeavored to convince : and in moving, particu¬ 
larly the softer passions, he is highly successful. No man 
ever knew the force of words better than Cicero. He rolls 
them along with the greatest beauty and magnificence ; and 
in the structure of his sentences, is eminently curious and 
exact. He is always full and flowing ; never abrupt. He 
amplifies every thing; yet, though his manner is generally 
diffuse, it is often happily varied, and accommodated to the 
subject. When a great public object roused his mind, and 
demanded indignation and force, he departs, considerably, 
from that loose and declamatory manner, to which, at other 


When did the Roman orators first rise into reputation 1 Who were the 
most eminent; but why is it not necessary to transcribe what Cicero has said 
of them I Who is the object most worthy our attention; and what does 
his name alone suggest 'l In what character only, shall we here view him; 
and what shall we endeavor to do I How does it appear that his virtues 
are very great; and in what respect has he the advantage over Demos¬ 
thenes I How is this remark illustrated I Of his knowledge of the force 
of words, and of his manner in general, what is farther remarked 'j When 
does he depart from his usual manner; and in what orations is this the 
case 1 


17 




194 COMPARISON OF [Lect. 24. 

times, he is inclined, and becomes exceedingly cogent ancf 
vehement. This is the case in his orations against Anthony 
and in those against Verres and Catiline. 

This great orator, however, is not without his defects. 
In most of his orations there is too much art; it is even 
carried to a degree of ostentation. He seems often desirous 
of commanding admiration, rather than of producing convic¬ 
tion. Hence, on some occasions, he is showy rather than 
solid; and diffuse, where he ought to have been urgent. 
His sentences are always round and sonorous; they cannot 
be accused of monotony, for they possess variety of cadence ; 
but from too great a fondness for magnificence, he is, on 
some occasions, deficient in strength. Though the services 
which he had rendered to his country were very great, yet 
he is too much his own panegyrist. Ancient manners, which 
imposed fewer restraints on the side of decorum, may, in 
some degree, excuse, but cannot entirely justify his vanity. 

Whether Demosthenes or Cicero be the most perfect 
orator, is a question on which much has been said by criti 
cal writers. The different manner of these two princes of 
eloquence, and the distinguishing characters of each, are so 
strongly marked in their writings, that the comparison is, in 
many respects, obvious and easy. The character of Demos¬ 
thenes is vigor and austerity; that of Cicero is gentleness 
and insinuation. In the one you find more manliness; in 
the other, more ornament. The one is more harsh, but 
more spirited and cogent; the other more agreeable, but 
withal looser and weaker. 

In comparing these two great orators, Fenelon, the cele¬ 
brated Archbishop of Cambray, and author of Telemachus, 
seems to have stated their relative merits with great justice 
and perspicuity. His judgment is given in his Reflections 
on Rhetoric and Poetry. The following is a translation of 
the passage : ‘ I do not hesitate to declare,’ says he, ‘that 
I think Demosthenes superior to Cicero. I am persuaded 
no one can admire Cicero more than I do. He adorns what- 


What, however, are this great orator’s defects; and hence, what fol¬ 
lows 1 What is remarked of his sentences ; and of the services which he 
rendered to his country, what is observed What may, in some degree, 
excuse his vanity % On what question has much been said by critical 
writers ; and why is the comparison, in many respects, easy 'l What is 
the comparison between them 'l What is remarked of Fenelon’s com¬ 
parison of them 'l Where is his judgment given; and what is the trans¬ 
lation of the passage 'l 



Lect. 24.] CICERO AND DEMOSTHENES. 195 

ever he attempts. He does honor to language. He dis¬ 
poses of words in a manner peculiar to himself. His style 
has great variety of character. Whenever he pleases, he 
is even concise and vehement; for instance, against Cati¬ 
line, against Verres, against Anthony. But ornament is too 
visible in his writings. His art is wonderful, but it is per¬ 
ceived. When the orator is providing for the safety of the 
Republic, he forgets not himself, nor permits others to forget 
him. Demosthenes seems to escape from himself, and to 
see nothing but his country. He seeks not elegance of ex¬ 
pression ; unsought for, he possesses it. He is superior to 
admiration. He makes use of language as a modest man 
does of dress, only to cover him. He thunders, he lightens. 
He is a torrent which carries every thing before it. We 
cannot criticise, because we are not ourselves. His subject 
enchains our attention, and makes us forget his language. 
We lose him from our sight: Philip alone occupies our 
minds. I am delighted with both these orators ; but I con¬ 
fess that I am less affected by the infinite art and magnificent 
eloquence of Cicero, than by the rapid simplicity of Demos¬ 
thenes.* 

The reign of eloquence, among the Romans, was very 
short. After the age of Cicero, it expired ; and we have no 
reason to wonder that this was the case. For not only was 
liberty entirely extinguished, but arbitrary power was felt 
in its heaviest and most oppressive weight; Providence 
having, in his wrath, delivered over the Roman empire to 
a succession of the most execrable tyrants that ever disgraced 
and scourged the human race. Under their government it 
was naturally to be expected that taste would be corrupted, 
and genius discouraged. Some of the ornamental arts, less 
intimately connected with liberty, continued, for a while, to 
prevail; but for that masculine eloquence, which had exer¬ 
cised itself in the senate, and in the public affairs, there was 
no longer any place. Luxury, effeminacy, and flattery, 
overwhelmed all. And the forum, where so many great 
affairs had been transacted, was now become a desert. 

In the decline of the Roman empire, the introduction of 


Of the reign of eloquence among the Romans, what is remarked; and 
why have we no reason to wonder that this was the easel Under their 
government, what was naturally to be expected 1 Of some of the arts 
what is remarked; but for what was there no longer any place 1 What 
overwhelmed all; and what was the forum now become 'l What, in the 
decline of the Roman empire, introduced a new species of eloquence; but 
of them what is remarked 1 



196 MODERN ELOQUENCE. [Lect. 24. 

Christianity gave rise to a new species of eloquence, in the 
apologies, sermons, and pastoral writings of the Fathers of 
the church. But none of them afford very just models of 
eloquence. Their language, as soon as we descend to the 
third or fourth century, becomes harsh ; and they are, in 
general, infected with the taste of that age—a love of swoln 
and strained thoughts, and of the play of words. Among 
the Greek Fathers, the most distinguished, by far, for his 
oratorical merit, is St. Chrysostom. His language is pure ; 
his style highly figured. He is copious, smooth, and 
sometimes highly pathetic. But he retains, at the same 
time, much of that character which has been always attri¬ 
buted to the Asiatic eloquence—diffuse and redundant to a 
great degree, and often overwrought and tumid. 

As nothing occurs that deserves attention in the middle 
ages, we pass now to the state of eloquence in modern times. 
Here it must be acknowledged, that in no European nation, 
has public speaking been considered so great an object, or 
been cultivated with so much care, as in Greece or Rome. 
Its reputation has never been so high ; its effects have never 
been so considerable; nor has that high and sublime kind 
of it, which prevailed in those ancient states, been so much 
as aimed at; notwithstanding, too, that a new profession has 
been established, which gives peculiar advantages to oratory, 
and affords it the noblest field—we mean the church. The 
genius of the world seems, in this respect, to have undergone 
some alteration. The two countries where we might expect 
to find most of the spirit of eloquence are, France and Great 
Britain: France, on account of the distinguished turn of 
the nation towards all the liberal arts, and of the encourage¬ 
ment which, for more than a century past, these arts have 
received from the public : Great Britain, on account of its 
free government, and the liberal spirit and genius of its 
people. Yet in neither of these countries has the talent of 
public speaking risen near to the degree of its ancient splen¬ 
dor ; while in other productions of genius, both in prose and 
in poetry, they have contended for the prize with Greece and 


What is observed of their language ; and with what are they, in general, 
infected % Among the Greek fathers, who is the most distinguished ; and 
what is remarked of him 1 What is observed of the eloquence of the mid¬ 
dle ages, and of that of modern times 1 In what two countries might we 
expect to find most of the spirit of eloquence ; and why 2 How do these 
countries compare with Greece and Rome in eloquence j and, also, in other 
productions of genius 'l 



Lect. 24.] MODERN ELOQUENCE. 197 

Rome; nay, in some compositions, they may be thought to 
have surpassed them. 

It seems particularly surprising, that Great Britain should 
not have made a more conspicuous figure in eloquence than 
it has hitherto attained ; when we consider the enlightened, 
and, at the same time, the free and hold genius of the coun¬ 
try, which seems not a little to favor oratory; and when we 
consider that, of all the polite nations of Europe, it alone 
possesses a popular government, or admits into the legis¬ 
lature, such numerous assemblies as can be supposed to lie 
under the dominion of eloquence. Notwithstanding this 
advantage, it must be confessed, that in most parts of 
eloquence, we are undoubtedly inferior, not only to the 
Greeks and Romans by many degrees, but also, in some 
respects, to the French. We have philosophers, eminent 
and conspicuous, perhaps, beyond any nation, in every 
branch of science. We have both taste and erudition, in a 
high degree. We have historians, we have poets of the 
greatest name; but of orators, or public speakers, we have 
little to boast; and no monuments of their genius are to be 
found.* 

The characteristical difference between the state of elo¬ 
quence in France and Great Britain is, that the French have 
adopted higher ideas both of pleasing and persuading by 
means of oratory, than we have ; though, sometimes, in the 
execution, they fail. In Great Britain, we have taken up 
eloquence on a lower key; but in our execution, as was 
naturally to be expected, have been more correct. In France, 
the style of their orators is ornamented with bolder figures ; 
and their discourse carried on with more amplification, 
warmth, and elevation. The composition is often very 
beautiful; but sometimes, also, too diffuse, and deficient in 
that strength and cogency which gives to eloquence all its 
power. 

* Perhaps, Burke, Sheridan, Fox, and Pitt, form exceptions to this 
remark. 


Why does it seem surprising that Great Britain has not made a more 
conspicuous figure in eloquence, than it hitherto has % Notwithstanding 
this advantage, what must be confessed ? What do we possess; but of our 
orators what is remarked 1 Who form exceptions to this last remark 1 
What is the characteristical difference between the state of eloquence in 
France and in Great Britain 1 What is remarked of the state of their 
Orations in France; and, also, of their composition 1 



198 MODERN ELOQUENCE. [Lect. 24. 

Several reasons may be given, why modern eloquence has 
been so confined and humble in its efforts. In the first 
place, it seems, that this change must, in part, be ascribed 
to accurate turn of thinking, which has been so much 
studied in modern times. Our public speakers are obliged 
to be more reserved than the ancients, in their endeavors to 
elevate the imagination and warm the passions; and, by 
the influence of prevailing taste, their own genius is, per¬ 
haps, in too great a degree, rendered chaste and delicate. 
It is probable, also, that we ascribe to our correctness and 
good sense, what is chiefly owing to the phlegm and natural 
coldness of our dispositions. For the vivacity and sensi¬ 
bility of the Greeks and Romans, more particularly of the 
former, seem to have been much superior to ours, and to 
have communicated to them a higher relish for all the beau¬ 
ties of oratory. 

Besides these national considerations, we must, in the 
next place, attend to peculiar circumstances in the three 
great scenes of public speaking, which have proved disad¬ 
vantageous to the growth of eloquence among us. Though 
the parliament of Great Britain be the noblest field that 
Europe, at the present day, affords to a public speaker, yet 
eloquence has never been so powerful an instrument there, 
as it was in the popular assemblies of Greece and Rome. 
Under some former reigns, the iron hand of arbitrary power 
checked its efforts; and in later times, ministerial influence 
has generally rendered it of small importance. The power 
of speaking, though always considerable, yet has been often 
found too feeble to counterbalance either of these ; and, of 
course, has not been studied with so much zeal and fervor, 
as where its effect on business was irresistible and certain. 

At the bar, our disadvantage, in comparison with the an¬ 
cients, is great. Among them, the judges were commonly 
numerous ; the laws were few and simple; the decision of 
causes was left, in a great measure, to equity, and a sense of 
mankind. Hence the field for judicial eloquence was large 


What is the first reason given, why modern eloquence has been so con¬ 
fined and humble in its efforts ; and how is this illustrated ? What is 
also probable ; and why ? Besides these national considerations, to what 
must we, in the next place, attend ; and of the parliament of Great Britain, 
what is observed ? What, under some former reigns, checked its efforts, 
and in later times, what has rendered it of small importance 1 Of the 
power of speaking what is remarked; and, of course, what has followed I 
What are our disadvantages at the bar; and hence what followed? 



Lect. 24.] MODERN ELOQUENCE. 199 

and ample. But at present, the system of law is become 
much more complicated. The knowledge of it is rendered 
so laborious an attainment, as to constitute the business of a 
man’s life. The art of speaking is hut a secondary ac- ^ 
complishment, to which he can afford to devote much 
less of his time and labor. The bounds of eloquence, be¬ 
sides, are now much circumscribed at th,e bar ; and, except 
in a few cases, reduced to arguing, from strict law, statute, 
or precedent, by which means knowledge, much more than 
oratory, is become the principal requisite. 

With regard to the pulpit, it has certainly been a great 
disadvantage, that the practice of reading sermons, instead 
of repeating them from memory, has, with us, so generally 
prevailed. This may, indeed, have introduced accuracy; 
but it has done great prejudice to eloquence ; for a discourse 
read, is far inferior to an oration spoken. It leads to a dif¬ 
ferent sort of composition, as well as of delivery ; and can 
never have an equal effect upon an audience. Another cir¬ 
cumstance, too, has been unfortunate. The sectaries and 
fanatics, before the Restoration, adopted a warm, zealous, - 
and popular manner of preaching; and their adherents 
afterwards continued to distinguish themselves by a similar 
ardor. A hatred of these sects, drove the established 
church into the opposite extreme, of a studied coolness of 
expression. Hence, from the art of persuasion, which 
preaching ought always to he, it has passed, with us, into 
mere reasoning and instruction. 


What is the case at present; and how is the art of speaking regarded I 
What farther remarks follow 1 With regard to the pulpit, what has been 
the, effect of the practice of reading sermons % What other circumstance, 
too, has been unfortunate; and hence what followed 1 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Roman eloquence. 

A. Its origin. 

B. Cicero. 

a. His excellences. 

b. His defects. 

c. Compared with Demos¬ 

thenes. 

C. Eloquence among the Ro¬ 

mans of short continu- 


D. Eloquence of the church. 

2. Modern eloquence. 

A. Of France. 

B. Of Great Britain. 

C. Why modern eloquence is 

limited. 

a. The bar. 

b. The pulpit. 


ance. 








LECTURE XXV. 


DIFFERENT KINDS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING— 
ELOQUENCE OF POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 

After the prelimiiwy views which have been given of 
the nature of eloquence in general, and of the state in which 
it has subsisted in different ages and countries, we are now 
to enter on the different kinds of public speaking, the dis¬ 
tinguishing characters of each, and the rules that relate to 
them. The ancients divided all orations into three kinds ; 
the demonstrative, the deliberative, and the judicial. The 
scope of the demonstrative was to praise or to blame ; that 
of the deliberative, to advise or to dissuade; that of the ju¬ 
dicial, to accuse or to defend. The principal subjects of 
demonstrative eloquence, were panegyrics, invectives, gratu- 
latory and funeral orations. The deliberative was employed 
in matters of public concern, agitated in the senate, or before 
the assemblies of the people. The judicial is the same as 
the eloquence of the bar, employed in addressing judges, 
who have power to absolve or to condemn. Though this 
division is judicious, and has been followed by some of the 
moderns, yet, it will suit our purpose better, to follow that 
division which the train of modern speaking naturally points 
out to us, taken from the three great scenes of eloquence, 
popular assemblies, the bar, and the pulpit; each of which 
has a distinct character. 

To all the three, pulpit, bar, and popular assemblies, be¬ 
long, in common, the rules concerning the conduct of a 
discourse in all its parts. Of these rules we shall afterwards 
treat at large. But before we proceed to them, it seems 
necessary to show what is peculiar to each of these three 
kinds of oratory, in their spirit, character, or manner. For 


After these preliminary vievfs, upon what are we to enter 1 Into what 
three kinds did the ancients divide all orations; and what was the scope 
of each I On what subjects were they respectively employed I Of this 
division, what is remarked ; but what will suit our purpose better I To 
the pulpit, bar, and popular assemblies, what, equally, belong; and what is 
observed of them I But before we proceed to them, what seems necessary; 
and why 1 



Lect. 25.] PUBLIC SPEAKING. 201 

every species of public speaking has a manner or character 
peculiarly suited to itself; of which it is highly material to 
have a just idea, in order to direct the application of general 
rules. 

Without inquiring which of these three kinds of public 
speaking before mentioned, has the preference, in point of 
rank, we shall begin with the eloquence of popular assem¬ 
blies ; as it tends to throw most light upon the rest. The 
most august theatre for this kind of eloquence, to be found in 
any nation of Europe, is, beyond doubt, the parliament of 
Great Britain. In meetings, too, of less dignity,-it may dis¬ 
play itself. Wherever there is a popular court, or wherever 
any number of men are assembled for debate or consultation, 
there, this species of eloquence may be applied. Its object 
is, or ought always to be, persuasion. There must be some 
end proposed—some point, most commonly of public utility 
or good, in favor of which we seek to determine our hearers. 
Now, in all attempts to persuade men, we must proceed upon 
the principle, that it is necessary to convince their under¬ 
standing. _ Nothing can be more erroneous than to imagine, 
that because speeches to popular assemblies admit more of a 
declamatory style than some other discourses, they, therefore, 
stand less in need of being supported by sound reasoning. 
When modelled upon this false idea, they may have the 
show, but can never produce the effect of real eloquence. 
Even the show of eloquence which they make, will please 
only the trifling and superficial; for with all tolerable judges, 
mere declamation soon becomes insipid. 

It must ever be remembered, that the foundation of all 
that can be called eloquence, is good sense, and solid 
thought. As popular as the orations of Demosthenes were, 
spoken to all the citizens of Athens, every one who reads 
them must be sensible how fraught they are with argument; 
and how important it appeared to him to convince the under¬ 
standing, in order to persuade, or to work on the principles 
of action. Hence their influence in his own time; and 


With which shall we begin; and why At present, where is the most 
august theatre for this kind of eloquence to be found ; and where else may 
it display itself'l How is this last remark illustrated 7 What is its object; 
and what remarks follow 'l What is an erroneous idea ; and when mo¬ 
delled upon this, what is observed of them 'l Whom only will the show 
of eloquence which they make please ; and why 'l What is the foundation 
of all that can be called eloquence; and from Demosthenes, how is this 
illustrated 1 



202 ELOQUENCE OF [Lect. 25. 

hence their fame in ours. Let it be the first study, therefore, 
of him who means to address a popular assembly, to be pre¬ 
viously master of the business on which he means to speak ; 
to be well provided with matter and argument; and to rest 
upon these the chief stress. This will always give to his 
discourse an air of manliness and strength, which is a power¬ 
ful instrument of persuasion. Ornament, if there be a 
genius for it, will follow of course ; and, at any rate, it de¬ 
mands only their secondary study. ‘ To your expression 
be’ attentive ; but about your matter be solicitous,’ is an 
advice of Quintilian, which cannot be too often recollected 
by all who study oratory. 

In the next place, in order to be persuasive speakers in a 
popular assembly, it is a capital rule, that we, ourselves,’be 
persuaded of what we recommend to others. Never, when 
it can be avoided, should we espouse any side of the argu¬ 
ment, but what we believe to be the just one. Seldom or 
never will a man be eloquent, but when he is in earnest, 
and uttering his own sentiments. As was before observed, 
all high eloquence must be the offspring of passion, or warm 
emotion. This makes every man persuasive, and gives a 
force to his genius, which it cannot otherwise possess. 

Young people, with a view of training themselves to the 
art of speaking, imagine it useful to adopt that side of the 
question under debate, which, to themselves, appears the 
weakest, and to try what figure they can make of it. But 
this is by no means the most improving education for public 
speaking; as it tends to form them to a habit of flimsy and 
trivial discourse. Such a liberty they should at no time 
allow themselves, unless in meetings where no real business 
is carried on, but where declamation or improvement in 
speaking, is the sole aim. Nor even in such meetings is it 
to be recommended as the most useful exercise. They will 
improve themselves to more advantage, and acquit them¬ 
selves with more honor, by choosing, always, that side of 


What, therefore, should be the first study of him who wishes to address 
a popular assembly ; and what will this give to his discourse 'l Of orna¬ 
ment what is remarked ; what says Quintilian ; and what is observed of it 'l 
In the next place, to be persuasive speakers in a popular assembly, what is 
a capital rule 'l What should we never do; and why 'l What was be¬ 
fore observed ; and what is remarked of it 1 What do young people 
imagine to be useful ; of this what is observed ; and why 7 When, only, 
should they allow themselves such a liberty; and even in such meetings 
what will be a more useful exercise 1 




Lect. 25.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 203 

the debate, to which, in their own judgment, they are most 
inclined, and supporting it by what seems to themselves 
most solid and persuasive. They will acquire the habit of 
reasoning closely, and expressing themselves with warmth 
and force, much more when they are adhering to their own 
sentiments, than when they are speaking in opposition to 
them. 

Debate in popular assemblies, seldom allows the speaker 
that previous preparation, which the pulpit always, and the 
bar sometimes, admits. The argument must he suited to 
the course which the debate takes; and as no man can ex¬ 
actly foresee this, one who trusts to a set speech, previously 
composed, will, on many occasions, he thrown out of the 
ground which he had taken, or find it preoccupied by others. 
There is, indeed, a general prejudice against all kinds of set 
speeches, in public meetings. At the opening of a debate, 
they may, perhaps, sometimes he introduced with propriety ; 
but as the debate advances, they become improper : they 
want the appearance of being suggested by the business 
about which the' speakers are engaged. Study and osten¬ 
tation are apt to be too conspicuous ; and, consequently, 
though admired as elegant, they are seldom so persuasive 
as more free and unconstrained discourses. 

This, however, by no means prohibits a premeditation of 
what we are to say ; but the premeditation which is of most 
advantage, is of the subject or argument in general, rather 
than of elegant composition in any particular branch of it. 
With regard to the matter, we cannot be too accurate in our 
preparation ; but with regard to words and expression, it is 
very possible to be so assiduous, as to render our speech 
stiff and precise. Till speakers acquire that firmness, that 

f >resence of mind, and that command of expression, in a pub¬ 
ic meeting, which nothing but habit and practice can bestow, 
it may be proper for them to commit to memory the whole 
of what they are to say ; but after some performances of this 


Why is this the case ! What does debate in popular assemblies seldom 
allow the speaker ; and why ! Against what is there a general prejudice ! 
When may they be introduced with propriety ; when do they become im¬ 
proper ; and why ! What are apt to be too conspicuous ; and what con¬ 
sequence follows! What, however, does not this prohibit; but what 
premeditation is of most advantage % With regard to the matter and to 
the words, what remarks follow 1 Till when should speakers commit the 
whole of what they are to say ; but after some performances of this kind 
shall have given them boldness, what will they find the better method 1 




204 ELOQUENCE OF [Lect. 25. 

kind shall have given them boldness, they will find it the 
better method not to confine themselves so strictly, but only 
to set down some short notes of the topics, or principal 
thoughts upon which they are to insist, leaving the words to 
be suggested by the warmth of discourse. Such short notes 
of the substance of the discourse, will be found of consider 
able service, to those, especially, who are beginning to speak 
in public. They will accustom them to a degree of accuracy, 
which if they speak frequently, they are in danger of soon 
losing. They will even accustom them to a distinct arrange¬ 
ment, without which eloquence, however great, cannot pro¬ 
duce entire conviction. 

This leads us next to observe, that in all kinds of public 
speaking, no discourse of any length, should be without 
method—that is, every thing should he found in its proper 
place. Every one who speaks, will find it of the greatest 
advantage to have previously arranged his thoughts, and 
classed under proper heads, in his own mind, what he is to 
deliver. This will assist his memory, and carry him 
through his discourse without that confusion to which one 
is every moment subject, who has fixed no distinct plan of 
what he is to say. And with respect to the hearers, order 
in discourse is absolutely necessary for making any proper 
impression. It adds both force and light to what is said. 
It enables them to accompany the speaker easily and readily, 
as he goes along, and makes them feel the full effect of every 
argument which he employs. 

We shall now consider the style and expression suited to 
the eloquence of popular assemblies; and that these give 
scope to the most animated manner of public speaking, there 
can be no doubt. The very aspect of a large assembly, en¬ 
gaged in some debate of importance, and attentive to the 
discourse" of one man, is sufficient to inspire that man with 
such elevation and warmth, as not only give rise to strong 
impressions, but gives them propriety also. Passion is 
easily excited in a great assembly, wherp the movements 
are communicated by mutual sympathy between the orator 


Of what service will such short notes be 1 What does this lead us next 
to observe 1 What will every one who speaks find of great advantage ; 
and why 1 What advantages do the hearers derive from order in discourse 1 
What shall we now consider; and of what can there be no doubt 1 What 
is the effect of the aspect of a large assembly, engaged in some debate of 
importance; and why 1 





Lect. 25.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 205 

and the audience. That ardor of speech, that vehemence 
and glow of sentiment, which proceed from a mind animated 
and inspired by some great and public object, constitute the 
peculiar character of popular eloquence, in its highest de¬ 
gree of perfection. We must remember, however, that the 
liberty of indulging in a strong and passionate manner, in 
this kind of oratory, must be kept within certain limits ; and 
these we shall point out, in order to guard against mistakes 
on this subject. 

In the first place, the warmth which we express, must be 
suited to the occasion and the subject; for nothing can be 
more preposterous, than an attempt to introduce great vehe¬ 
mence into a subject, which is either of slight importance, or 
which, by its nature, requires to be treated of calmly. A 
temperate tone of speech, is that for which there is most 
frequent occasion ; and he who is always passionate and 
vehement, will he considered as a blusterer, and meet with 
little regard. 

In the second place, we must be careful never to counter¬ 
feit warmth without feeling it. This always betrays persons 
into an unnatural manner, which exposes them to ridicule; 
for, as has been often suggested, to support the appearance, 
without the real feeling of passion, is one of the most diffi¬ 
cult things in nature. The great rule here, as, indeed, in 
every other case, is, never to attempt a strain of eloquence 
which is not seconded by our own genius. A speaker may 
acquire both reputation and influence, by a calm, argumen¬ 
tative manner ; but to reach the pathetic and the sublime of 
oratory, requires those strong sensibilities of mind, and that 
high power of expression, which are the lot of a very small 
portion of mankind. 

In the third place, even when the subject justifies the 
vehement manner, and when genius prompts it—when 
warmth is felt, not feigned ; we must, however, be cautious, 
lest impetuosity carry us beyond the bounds of prudence 
and propriety. If the speaker lose the command of himself, 


What constitute the peculiar character of popular eloquence, in its 
highest perfection; but what must we, at the same time, remember'? In 
the first place, to what must the warmth be suited; and why 'l For what 
tone of speech is there most frequent occasion ; and what follows I In the 
second place, about what must we be careful; and why 1 Here, what is 
the great rule I What may a speaker, by a calm, argumentative manner, 
acquire; but to reach the pathetic and the sublime of oratory, what is re- 
juisite I In the third place, of what must we be cautious; and why I 

18 



206 ELOQUENCE OF [Lect. 25. 

he will soon cease to influence his hearers. He should be¬ 
gin with moderation, and endeavor to warm his audience 
gradually and equally with himself; for if their passions be 
not in unison with his, the discord will soon be disagreeable 
and offensive. Respect for his hearers should always lay a 
decent restraint upon his warmth, and prevent it from car 
rying him beyond proper limits. When this is the case— 
.when a speaker is so far master of himself as to preserve 
close attentiQn to argument, and even to some degree of 
accurate expression, this self-command, this effort of reason, 
in the midst of passion, contributes, in the highest degree, 
both to please and to persuade. It is indeed, the highest 
attainment of eloquence ; uniting the strength of reason with 
the vehemence of passion ; affording all the advantages of 
passion for the purpose of persuasion, without the confusion 
and disorder which are its usual attendants. 

In the fourth place, in the highest and most animated 
strain of popular speaking, we must always preserve a due 
regard to what the public ear will hear. Without an atten¬ 
tion to this, an injudicious imitation of ancient orators might 
betray a speaker into a boldness of manner, with which the 
coolness of modern taste would be dissatisfied and displeased. 
This may, perhaps, as was before observed, he a disad¬ 
vantage to modern eloquence. It is no reason why we 
should be too severe in checking the impulse of genius, and 
continuing always creeping on the ground; but it is a reason, 
however, why we should avoid carrying the tone of decla¬ 
mation to a height that would now he considered extravagant. 

In the fifth place, in all kinds of public speaking, but 
especially in popular assemblies, we must particularly 
attend to all the decorums of time, place, and character. No 
ardor of eloquence can atone for these. That vehemence 
which is becoming in a person of character and authority, 
may be unsuitable to the modesty expected from a young 
speaker. That sportive and witty manner which may suit 
one subject and one assembly, is altogether out of place in a 


In what manner should he begin; how should he proceed ; and why 1 
What effect should respect for his hearers always produce ; and of this, 
what remarks follow 1 In the fourth place, what must we always preserve ; 
and what will be the consequence of neglecting this ? To what may this 
be a disadvantage; for what is it no reason ; but for what is it a reason 1 
In the fifth place, to what must we attend; and how is this fullv illus¬ 
trated I J 



Lect 25.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 207 

grave cause, and a solemn meeting. No one should ever 
rise to speak in public, without forming to himself a just and 
strict idea of what suits his own age and character ; what is 
suitable to the subject, the hearers, the place, and the occa¬ 
sion. On this idea he should adjust the whole train and 
manner of his elocution. 

With regard to the degree of conciseness or diffuseness 
suited to popular eloquence, it is not easy to determine with 
precision. A diffuse manner is generally considered as 
the most proper. It seems, however, that there is danger 
of erring in this respect; and that by too diffuse a style, 
public speakers often lose more in point of strength, than 
they gain by the fullness of their illustration. Excessive 
conciseness, indeed, must he cautiously avoided. We must 
explain and inculcate; hut confine ourselves within certain 
limits. We should never forget, that however much we 
may be delighted with hearing ourselves speak, every au¬ 
dience is apt to tire; and the moment they grow weary, our 
eloquence becomes useless. A loose and verbose manner 
never fails to create disgust; and, on most occasions, it is 
better to run the risk of saying too little than too much. It 
is better to place our thought in one strong point of view, 
and rest it there, than by presenting it in every light, and 
pouring forth a profusion of words upon it, exhaust the 
attention of our hearers, and leave them languid and fatigued. 


What should every one do before he rises to speak in public; and what 
remark follows 1 With regard to the degree of conciseness or diffuseness 
suited to popular eloquence, what is remarked ; and which is generally pre¬ 
ferred 1 What is the effect of too diffuse a style ; and what is remarked of 
excessive conciseness 1 yyhat should we never forget 'l What is said of 
a loose and verbose manner; and what remarks follow 'l 


ANALYSIS. . 


Different kinds of public speaking. 

1. Eloquence of popular assem¬ 
blies. 

A. The foundation of all elo¬ 

quence. 

a. The first requisite for popu¬ 

lar speaking. 

b. The second requisite. 

c. The practice of young 

speakers. 

B. Debate in popular assemblies, 

a. The necessity of premedi¬ 
tation. 


b. Method always to be ob¬ 
served. 

C. The style of popular elo¬ 
quence. 

a. The warmth suited to the 

subject. 

b. Never to be counterfeited. 

c. Not to be carried too far. 

d. The public ear to be re¬ 

garded. 

e. Decorums to be observed 

f. Conciseness and diffuseness 

considered. 






LECTURE XXVI. 

ELOQUENCE OF THE BAE. 


The next great scene of public speaking to which we 
proceed is the eloquence of the bar ; and as much of what 
was said in the last lecture is applicable here, also, our ob¬ 
servations upon this subject will be the less extensive. All, 
however, that has heen said, must not be applied to it; and 
it is necessary, therefore, that the distinction should be 
clearly perceived. 

In the first place, the ends of speaking at the bar, and in 
popular assemblies, are commonly different. In popular 
assemblies, the great object is persuasion : the orator aims 
at determining the hearers to some choice or conduct, as 
good, fit, or useful. For accomplishing this end, he neces¬ 
sarily applies himself to every principle of action in our 
nature—to the passions and to the heart, as well as to the 
understanding. But at the bar, conviction is the great ob¬ 
ject. There, it is not the speaker’s business to persuade 
the judges to what is good or useful, but to show them what 
is just and true ; and consequently, it is chiefly, or solely, 
to the understanding that his eloquence is addressed. 

In the next place, speakers at the bar address themselves 
to one, or to a few judges, who are, generally, persons of 
age, gravity, and dignity of character. There, they have 
not those advantages which a mixed and numerous assembly 
affords for employing all the arts of speech, even supposing 
their subject to admit them. Passion does not rise so easily ; 
the speaker is heard more coolly; he is watched with more 
severity; and would expose himself to ridicule, by attempt¬ 
ing that high vehement tone, which is only proper in speak¬ 
ing to a multitude. 

In the last place, the nature and management of the sub- 


What is the next great scene of p\iblic speaking; and why will our 
observations on it not be extensive 'l As all, however, that has been said 
must not be applied to it, what follows I What is the first distinction ; 
and how is it fully illustrated l What is the second distinction I There, 
what advantages do they not possess; and why 'l What is the last dis¬ 
tinction mentioned; and in popular assemblies, what advantages has the 
speaker 1 




Lect. 26.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 209 

jects which belong to the bar, require a very different species 
of oratory from that of popular assemblies. In the latter, 
the speaker has a much wider range. He is seldom con¬ 
fined to any precise rule; he can fetch his topics from a 
great variety of quarters, and employ every illustration 
which his fancy or imagination suggests. But at the bar, 
the field of speaking is limited to precise law and statute. 
Imagination is not allowed to take its scope. The advocate 
sees before him the line, the square, and the compass. These, 
it is his principal business to be continually applying to the 
subjects under debate. 

For these reasons, it is evident, that the eloquence of the 
bar is of a much more limited, more sober and chastened 
kind, than that of popular assemblies ; and for similar rea¬ 
sons, we must beware of considering even the judicial 
orations of Cicero, or Demosthenes, as exact models of the 
manner of speaking which is adapted to the present state ol 
the bar. It is particularly necessary to remind young law¬ 
yers of this ; because, though these were pleadings spoken 
in civil or criminal causes, yet, the nature of the bar, 
anciently, both in Greece and Rome, allowed a much nearer 
approach to popular eloquence than it now does. 

This is to be ascribed principally to two causes : first, 
because in the ancient judicial orations, strict law was much 
less an object of attention than it is with us. In the days 
of Demosthenes and Cicero, the municipal statutes were few, 
simple, and general; and the decision of causes was left, in 
a great measure, to the equity and common sense of the 
judges. Eloquence, much more than jurisprudence, was 
the study of those who were to plead causes. Cicero in¬ 
forms us, that three months study was sufficient to make 
any man a complete civilian ; nay, it was even thought that 
one might be a good pleader at the bar, without any previous 
application. Among the Romans there was a set of men 
called Pragmatici , whose office it was to supply the orator 
with all the law knowledge his case required, and which he 
put into that popular form, and ornamented with those colors 


But at the bar, as the field of speaking is limited to precise law and 
statute, what follows 'l For these reasons, what is evident; and for simi¬ 
lar reasons, of what must we beware 1 Why is it particularly necessary 
to remind young lawyers of this % What is the first cause to which this 
is to be ascribed; and how is this illustrated 1 What does Cicero inform 
us; and what was even thought to be true 1 Among the Romans, what 
set of men was there; tuid what was their office 1 



210 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [Lect. 26. 

of eloquence, which were most fitted for influencing the 
judges before whom he spoke. 

We may next observe, that the civil and criminal judges, 
both in Greece and Rome, were commonly much more nu¬ 
merous than they are with us, and formed a sort of popular 
assembly. The celebrated tribunal of the Areopagus, at 
Athens, consisted of fifty judges at the least. Some make it 
consist of a great number more. When Socrates was con¬ 
demned, by what court it is uncertain, we are informed that 
no fewer than two hundred and eighty voted against him 
In Rome, the Judices Selecti, as they were called, were 
always numerous, and had the office and power of both 
judge and jury. In the famous cause of Milo, Cicero spoke 
to fifty-one Judices Selecti , and thus had the advantage of 
addressing his whole pleading, not to one, or to a few learned 
judges of the point of law, as is the case at present, but to an 
assembly of Roman citizens. Hence all those arts of popu¬ 
lar eloquence which he employed with so much success. 
Hence tears and commiseration are so often made use of as 
the means of gaining a cause. Hence, too, certain practices, 
which would be reckoned theatrical by us, were common at 
he Roman bar ; such as introducing not only the accused 
person, dressed in deep mourning, but presenting to the 
judges his family, and his young children, endeavoring to 
move them by their cries and tears. 

Thus we see, that on account of the wide difference between 
the ancient and modern state of the bar, and also, the differ¬ 
ence in the turn of ancient and modern eloquence, too strict 
an imitation of Cicero’s manner of pleading, would now be 
extremely injudicious. To great advantage, however, he 
may still be studied by every speaker at the bar. In the 
address with which he opens his subject, and the insinuation 
he employs for gainingthe favor of the judges—in the dis¬ 
tinct arrangements of his facts—in the gracefulness of his 
narration—in the conduct and exposition of his arguments, 
he may, and he ought to be imitated. 

Before we enter upon more particular directions concern- 

What may we next observe ; and what illustrations of this remark fol¬ 
low 'l in the famous cause of Milo, to how many judges did Cicero speak; 
what advantage did he thus possess; and hence what follows 'l Hence, 
too, what practices were common ; and what examples are given ? Thus 
what do we see; and why 1 Why, however, may he still be studied, by 
every speaker at the bar, to great advantage 'l Before we enter upon more 
particular directions concerning the eloquence < if the bar, what must we 
observe; and why 'l 



Lect. 26.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 211 

mg- the eloquence of the bar, we must observe, that the foun¬ 
dation of a lawyer’s reputation and success, must always be 
laid in a profound knowledge of his profession. Whatever 
his abilities as a speaker may he, if his knowledge of the law 
he considered superficial, few will choose to commit their 
cause to him. Besides previous study, and a proper stock 
of knowledge attained, another thing inseparable from the 
success of every pleader is, a diligent and painful attention 
to every cause with which he is entrusted, so as to be 
thoroughly master of all the facts and circumstances relating 
to it. On this, the ancient rhetoricians insist with greal 
earnestness, and justly represent it as a necessary basis to all 
the eloquence that can be exerted in pleading. Cicero tells 
us that he was in the habit of conversing fully with every 
client that came to consult him—that he was careful that nc 
one should hear their conversation, in order that his client 
might explain himself more freely—that he was accustomec 
to start every objection, and to plead the cause of the adverse 
party with him, that he might come at the whole truth, anc 
be fully prepared on every point of the business; and that, 
after the client had retired, he used to balance all the facts 
with himself, under three different characters—his own, that 
of the judge, and that of the advocate on the opposite side 
Quintilian, amongst many other excellent rules on the samt 
subject, observes that, 4 to listen to something which is super 
fluous can do no hurt; whereas to he ignorant of something 
that is material, maybe highly prejudicial. The advocatt 
will frequently discover the weak side of a cause, and learn 
at the same time, what is the proper defence, from circum¬ 
stances which, to the party himself, appeared to be of little 
or no moment.’ 

Supposing an advocate to be thus prepared, with all the 
knowledge which the study of the law in general, and of the 
cause which he is to plead in particular, can furnish him, it 
must next be observed, that eloquence in pleading is of the 
highest moment for giving support to a cause. It would be 
altogether wrong to infer, that because the ancient popular 


Besides previous study, what else is requisite for success; and for what 
reason 'l In what estimation did the ancient rhetoricians hold this; and 
how did they represent it 7 On this subject what does Cicero tell us was 
the course he was accustomed to pursue ; and with what view 7 What 
does Gluintilian, amongst many other excellent rules, observe 7 Supposing 
an advocate to be thus prepared with all requisite knowledge, what mu*a 
next be obser/ed 7 What inference would be a wrong one 7 



212 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [Lect. 26. 

and vehement manner is now, in a great measure, super¬ 
seded, there is, therefore, no room for eloquence at the bar, 
and that the study of it has become superfluous. There is, 
perhaps, no scene of public speaking where eloquence is 
more necessary. On other occasions, the subject on which 
men speak in public is frequently sufficient, by itself, to 
interest the hearers ; but the dryness and subtlety of the sub¬ 
jects generally agitated at the bar, require more than any 
other, a certain kind of eloquence, in order to command 
attention ; in order to give proper weight to the arguments 
that are employed, and to prevent any thing which the 
pleader advances from passing unregarded. The effect of 
good speaking is always very great. There is as much dif¬ 
ference in the impression made upon the hearers, by a cold, 
dry, and confused speaker, and that made by one who pleads 
the same cause with elegance, ardor, and strength, as there 
is between our conception of an object, when it is presented 
to us in the glimmering of twilight, and when viewed in the 
wide effulgence of a summer’s noon. 

It is no small encouragement to eloquence at the bar, that 
of all the liberal professions, none gives fairer play to genius 
and abilities than that of the advocate. He is less exposed 
than some others to suffer by the arts of rivalry, by popular 
prejudices, or secret intrigues. He is sure of coming for¬ 
ward according to his merits ; for he stands forth every day 
to view; he boldly enters the list with his competitors ; 
every appearance which he makes, is an appeal to the pub¬ 
lic, whose decision seldom fails to be just, because it is 
impartial. Interest and friends may, at the beginning, give 
a young pleader peculiar advantages, but they can do no 
more than open the field to him. A reputation resting on 
these assistances will soon fall. Spectators remark, judges 
decide, parties watch; and to him will the multitude of 
clients never fail to resort, who gives the most approved 
specimens of his knowledge, eloquence, and industry. 

In the species of eloquence peculiar to the bar, purity and 
neatness of expression are chiefly to be studied—a style per- 


Why is eloquence here particularly necessary 7 What illustration of 
the eflect of good speaking follows 1 What is no small encouragement to 
eloquence at the bar; and why 7 Why is he sure of coming forward 
according to his merit 7 What may interest and friends, at the beginning 
do; and why will a reputation resting on these soon fall 7 In the species 
of eloquence peculiar to the bar, what are chiefly to be studied; and what 
is it? 



Lect. 26.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 213 

spicuous and proper, not needlessly overcharged with the 
pedantry of law terms, nor affectedly avoiding these, when 
they are suitable and requisite. Verbosity is a fault o 
which men of this profession are frequently accused; an« 
into which the habit of speaking and writing so hastily, 
and with so little preparation as they are often obliged to do, 
almost unavoidably betrays them. It cannot, therefore, he 
too earnestly recommended to those who are beginning to 
practice at the bar, that they should early endeavor to guard 
against this whilst they have full leisure for preparation. 
Let them form themselves to the habit of a strong and correct 
style, which expresses the same thing much better, in a few 
words, than is done by the accumulation of intricate and 
endless periods. If this habit he once acquired, it will be¬ 
come natural to them afterwards, when compelled by a mul¬ 
tiplicity of business to compose with more precipitation. 
Whereas, if a loose and negligent style has been suffered to 
become familiar, they will not be able, even upon occasions 
when they wish to make an unusual effort, to express them¬ 
selves with force and elegance. 

Distinctness, in speaking at the bar, is peculiarly neces¬ 
sary. This should be shown chiefly in two things ; first, 
in stating the question—in showing what is the point in de¬ 
bate—what we admit—what we deny; and where the line 
of division begins between us and the adverse party. Next, 
it should be shown in the order and arrangement of all the 
parts of the pleading. A clear method is of the highest 
consequence in every species of oration ; but in those intri¬ 
cacies that belong to the bar, it becomes infinitely essen 
tial. Too much pains, therefore, cannot be taken, in 
previously studying the plan and method. If there be 
indistinctness and disorder there, we can have no success in 
convincing ; and, consequently, we leave the whole cause in 
darkness. 

With respect to the narration of facts, it should always be 


With what fault are men of this profession often charged; and how are 
they often betrayed into it'? What is, therefore, earnestly recommended; 
and to what should they form themselves 1 If this habit be once acquired, 
what will follow; but if a negligent style has been suffered to become 
familiar, what will be the consequence 'l In speaking at the bar, what is 
peculiarly necessary; and how should it be shown 1 Where should it 
next be shown ; and why is it peculiarly necessary here 1 Why cannot, 
therefore, too much pains be taken in previously studying the plan and 
method I With respect to the narration of facts, what is remarked; and 
why 1 



214 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [Lect. 26. 

as concise as the nature of them will admit. It is always 
necessary that they should he remembered ; and, conse¬ 
quently, tediousness in relating them, and an unnecessary- 
minuteness, clogs and overloads the memory. Whereas, il 
a pleader omit all superfluous circumstances in his recital, 
he adds strength to the material facts ; he gives a clearer 
view of what he relates, and makes the impression of it 
more lasting. In argumentation, however, a more diffuse 
manner seems requisite at the bar, than on some other occa¬ 
sions. For, in popular assemblies, where the subject of 
debate is commonly plain and obvious, arguments gain 
Strength by their conciseness. But the intricacy of law 
points frequently requires the arguments to be expanded, 
and expressed in different lights, in order to be completely 
apprehended. 

Candor in stating the arguments of his adversary, cannot 
be too much recommended to every pleader. Should he 
disguise them, or place them in a false light, the artifice 
will be soon discovered; and the judge and the hearers will 
conclude, that he either wants discernment to perceive, or 
fairness to admit, his opponent’s reasoning. But if he slate 
with accuracy and candor, the arguments used against h im, 
before he endeavors to confute them, a strong prepossession 
will prevail in his favor. He will appear to have entire 
confidence in his own cause, since he does not attempt to 
support it by artifice or concealment. The judge will, con¬ 
sequently, be inclined to receive much more readily, the 
impressions made upon him by a speaker who appears, at 
the same time, both candid and intelligent. 

Wit may sometimes be serviceable at the bar, particularly 
in a lively reply, by which ridicule may be thrown on what 
an adversary has advanced. But a young pleader should 
b'e cautious how he admits too freely the indulgence of this 
dazzling talent. His office is not to excite laughter, but to 
produce conviction ; nor, perhaps, did ever any one rise to 
eminence in his profession, by being a witty lawyer. 

Since an advocate personates his client, he must plead 


Whereas, what is the effect of omitting all superfluous circumstances in 
the recital'l In what, however, does a more diffuse manner seem requisite; 
and why 1 Why should candor, in stating the arguments of an adversary, 
be particularly observed by every pleader; and what effect will it produce 1 
Of wit at the bar, what is remarked ; but about what should a young 
pleader be cautious; and why I Why must an advocate plead his cause 
with warmth ; but about what must he be cautious ; and for what reason ? 



Lect. 26.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 215 

his cause with a proper degree of warmth. He must be 
cautious, however, not to sacrifice his earnestness and sen¬ 
sibility, by an equal degree of ardor on every subject. There 
is a dignity of character which it is highly important for 
every one of this profession to support. An opinion of pro¬ 
bity and honor in the pleader, is his most powerful instrument 
of persuasion. He should always, therefore, decline em¬ 
barking in causes which are odious and manifestly unjust; 
and, when he supports a doubtful cause, he should lay the 
chief stress upon the arguments which appear to his judg¬ 
ment the most forcible ; reserving his zeal and indignation 
for cases where injustice and iniquity are notorious. 


What is a pleader’s most powerful instrument of persuasion; what 
should he, therefore, always decline; and when he supports a doubtful 
cause, what course should he pursue 'l 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Eloquence of the bar. 

A. Differs from popular elo¬ 

quence. 

a. The first difference. 

b. The second. 

c. The third. 

B. Ancient orations not models 

for modern pleaders. 

C. Requisites for a lawyer’s 

success. 

a. A profound knowledge of 
his profession. 


b. Eloquence in pleading. 

D. Directions for speaking at 
the bar. 

a. Be calm and temperate. 

b. Avoid verbosity. 

c. Be clear and distinct 

d. Be concise in narration. 

e. Be candid in stating an 

opponent’s arguments. 

f. Be warm and ear neat- 






LECTURE XXVII. 

ELOaUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 


Having already treated of the eloquence of popular as¬ 
semblies, and of the eloquence of the bar, we shall next con¬ 
sider the strain and spirit of that eloquence which is suited 
to the pulpit. 

This field of public speaking has evidently several advan¬ 
tages peculiar to itself. The dignity and importance of its 
subjects must be allowed to he superior to any other. They 
are such as ought to interest every one, and can he brought 
home to every man’s heart; and such as admit, at the same 
time, both the highest embellishment in description, and the 
greatest warmth and vehemence of expression. In treating 
his subject, the preacher has also peculiar advantages. He 
speaks not to one ora few judges, hut to a large assembly. 
He is secure from all interruption. He chooses his subject 
at leisure ; and has all the assistance that the most accurate 
jpremeditation can give him. 

But, together with these advantages, there are also pecu¬ 
liar difficulties that attend the eloquence of the pulpit. The 
preacher, it is true, has no contention with an adversary; 
but debate awakens genius, and excites attention. The pul¬ 
pit orator is, perhaps, in too quiet possession of his field. 
His subjects* though noble and important, are trite and com¬ 
mon. They have, for ages, employed so many speakers, 
and so many pens ; the public ear is so much accustomed to 
them, that it requires more than an ordinary power of genius 
to fix attention. Nothing is more difficult than to bestow on 
what is common, the grace of novelty. No sort of compo¬ 
sition whatever, is such a trial of skill, as where the merit 
of it lies wholly in the execution; not in giving any infor¬ 
mation that is new, not in convincing men of what they did 
not believe; but in dressing truths which they knew, and of 


The eloquence suited to what, shall we now consider 'l What peculiar 
advantages has this field of public speaking 1 In treating his subject, 
also, what advantages has the preacher I But together with these advan¬ 
tages, what difficulties attend the eloquence of the pulpit 1 What is a 
very difficult task; and what sort of composition is the greatest trial of 



Lect. 27. J 


ELOQUENCE, &c. 


217 


which they were before convinced, in such colors as may 
most forcibly effect their imagination and heart. It must 
be remembered, too, that the subject of the preacher gene¬ 
rally confines him to abstract qualities, to virtues and vices ; 
whereas that of other popular speakers leads them to treat 
of persons ; which is a subject generally more interesting to 
the hearers, and which occupies more powerfully the ima¬ 
gination. It is the business of the preacher to make you 
detest the crime only ; the pleader makes you detest the 
criminal. He describes a living person; and with more 
facility rouses your indignation. Hence it comes to pass, 
that though we have a great number of moderately good 
preachers, we have very few that are singularly eminent. 
We are still far from perfection in the art of preaching ; and 
perhaps there are few things in which it is more difficult to 
excel. The object, however, is noble, and worthy, upon 
many accounts, of being pursued with attention, ardor, and 
perseverance. 

It may, perhaps, occur to some, that preaching is no pro¬ 
per subject of eloquence. This, it may be said, belongs 
only to human studies and inventions; hut the truths of 
religion will prove the more successful, in proportion to the 
greater simplicity, and the less mixture of art with which 
they are set forth. This objection would have weight, if 
eloquence were an ostentatious and deceitful art—the study 
of words and of plausibility, only calculated to please the 
ear. But this is, by no means, the true idea of eloquence. 
True eloquence is the art of placing truth in the most ad¬ 
vantageous light for conviction and persuasion. This is 
what every good man who preaches the gospel not only 
may, but ought to have at heart; for it is most intimately 
connected with the success of his ministry. 

An essential requisite for excelling in preaching, is a fixed 
and habitual view of its end and object. This, undoubtedly, 
is to persuade men to become good. Every sermon should, 
consequently, be a persuasive oration. It is not to discuss 




What, also, must be remembered 1 What is, respectively, the business 
of the preacher, and of the pleader; what does the latter describe- and 
hence what comes to pass 1 What remarks follow 'l What may, perhaps, 
occur to some ; and of this what may be said 1 Under what circumstances 
would this objection have weight 1 But what is true eloquence; and why 
should every preacher have this at heart 'l What is an essential requisite 
for excelling in preaching; and what is this 1 What, consequently, should 
every sermon be, and how is this illustrated ? 

19 




218 ELOQUENCE OF [Lect. 27. 

some abstruse point, that the preacher ascends the pulpit: 
it is not to illustrate some metaphysical truth, or to inform 
his hearers of something 1 which they never heard before, 
but it is to make them better ; it i-s to give them, at the same^ 
time, clear views and persuasive impressions of religious 
truth. That abstract and philosophical manner of preach¬ 
ing, therefore, however much it may sometimes have been 
admired, is formed upon a very faulty idea, and deviates, 
essentially, from the just plan of pulpit eloquence. 

If the idea thus given of a sermon, be correct, it naturally 
follows that the preacher himself, in order to be successful, 
must be a good man. It is not sufficient that he specu¬ 
latively believe the truth and importance of those principles 
which he inculcates upon others; but he must have also a 
lively and serious feeling of them. This will always give 
an earnestness and strength, a fervor of piety to his exhor¬ 
tations, superior, in its effects, to all the arts of studied 
eloquence ; and indeed, without it, the mere declaimer will 
seldom be concealed. A spirit of true piety is the most 
effectual guard against those errors which preachers are apt 
to commit. It makes their discourses solid, cogent, and use 
ful; and prevents those frivolous and ostentatious harangues, 
which have no other aim than merely to make a parade of 
speech, or to- amuse an audience. 

The principal characteristics of the eloquence suited to the 
pulpit, as distinguished from other kinds of public speak 
ing, appear to be, gravity and warmth. The serious nature 
of the subjects belonging to the pulpit, requires gravity; 
their importance to mankind, requires warmth. It is, how¬ 
ever, far from being either easy or common to unite these 
characters of eloquence. The grave, when it predominates, 
becomes a dull, uniform solemnity. The warm, when it 
wants gravity, borders on the theatrical and light. The 
union of the two must be studied by all preachers, as of the 
utmost consequence, both in the composition of their dis- 


Of an abstract and philosophical manner of preaching, therefore, what 
is remarked ? If the idea thus given of a sermon, be correct, what natu¬ 
rally follows? What is not sufficient; what must he have: and of this, 
what will always be the effect ? What is the most effectual guard against 
those errors which preachers are apt to commit; and why 1 What are the 
principal characteristics of the eloquence suited to the pulpit; and why 1 
Why is it not easy to unite those characters of eloquence ? In what must 
the union of the two be studied as of the utmost consequence ; and when 
united, what do they form 1 



Lect. 27.] THE PULPIT. 219 

courses, and in their manner of delivery. When united, 
they form that character of preaching which the French call 
onction —that affecting, penetrating, and interesting manner, 
flowing from a strong sense in the preacher, of the import¬ 
ance of those truths which he delivers, and an earnest de¬ 
sire that they may make full impression on the hearts of 
his hearers. 

We now proceed to those rules and observations which 
respect a sermon as a particular species of composition. 

The first which we shall mention is, to attend to its unity. 
By this we mean, that there should he some one main point 
to which the whole tenor of the sermon shall refer. It must 
not be a pile of different subjects heaped upon each other, 
but one subject must predominate through the whole. This 
unity, however, does not require that there should he no 
divisions or separate heads in the discourse, or that one 
single thought only should he exhibited in different lights. 
It is not confined by such narrow limits ; it admits of some 
variety; it requires that union and connection he so far pre 
served only, as to make the whole concur in some one im 
pression on the mind. Thus, for instance, a preacher may 
employ several different arguments to enforce the love of 
God ; he may also enquire into the causes of the decay of 
this virtue ; still one great object is presented to the mind : 
but if, because his text says, ‘ He that loveth God, must love 
his brother also,’ he should therefore mingle, in the same 
discourse, arguments for the love of God, and for the love of 
our neighbor, he would greatly offend against unity, and 
leave a very confused impression on the minds of his hearers. 

In the second place, sermons are always the more striking, 
and generally the more useful, in proportion as the subject 
of them is precise and particular. This follows, in a great 
measure, from what has just been illustrated. Though a 
general subject is capable of being conducted with a con¬ 
siderable degree of unity, yet that unity can never be so 
complete as in a particular one. General subjects, indeed, 
such as the excellency of the pleasures of religion, are often 


To what do we now proceed; and what is the first 'l By this what do 
we mean ; but what does not this require '? How far, only, does it require 
that union be preserved ; and how is this remark illustrated ? But by 
what course would he greatly offend against unity; and what would be its 
effect 'l In the second place, what sermons are the most useful ? From 
what does this follow; and why 'l By whom are general subjects often 
chosen; why; and what is observed of them 'l 




220 ELOQUENCE OF [Lect. 27. 

chosen by young preachers as the most showy, and the 
easiest to be handled; and, doubtless, general views of re¬ 
ligion are not to be neglected, as, on several occasions, they 
have great propriety. But these subjects are not the most 
' favorable for producing the high effects of preaching. Atten¬ 
tion is much more readily commanded, by taking some par¬ 
ticular view of a great subject, and directing to that point the 
whole force of argument and eloquence. To recommend 
some one virtue, or to inveigh against a particular vice, 
affords a subject not deficient in unity or precision; but if 
that virtue or vice be considered as assuming a particular 
aspect, as it appears in certain characters, or affects certain 
situations in life, the subject becomes still more interesting. 
The execution is, certainly more difficult, but the merit and 
the effect are higher. 

In the third place, a preacher should be cautious not to 
exhaust his subject; for nothing is more apposite to per¬ 
suasion than an unnecessary fulness. He should select the 
most useful, striking, and persuasive topics, which the text 
suggests, and rest the discourse upon these." There are 
always some things which he may suppose to be known, 
and others which he need only slightly touch. If he seeks 
to omit nothing which is suggested by his subject, he will 
unavoidably encumber it, and weaken its force. 

In the fourth place, the preacher should study, above all 
things, to render his instructions interesting to his hearers. 
This is the great trial of true genius for the eloquence of the 
pulpit; for nothing is so fatal to success in preaching, as a 
dry manner. The great secret lies in preaching in such a 
manner as to bring home all that is spoken to the hearts of 
those who hear, so as to make every man think that the 
preacher is addressing him in particular. He should, con¬ 
sequently, avoid all intricate reasonings; avoid expressing 
himself in general speculative propositions ; or laying down 
practical truths in an abstract, metaphysical manner. As 


But why are not these subjects the most favorable for producing the high 
effects of preaching 1 What affords a subject not deficient in unity ; but 
when does the subject become still more interesting 1 What remark fol¬ 
lows 1 In the third place, of what should a preacher be cautious ; and why 1 
What course should he pursue; why; and what remarks follow ? In the 
fourth place, what above all things should the preacher study; and of this, 
what is remarked % In what lies the great secret; and what should he’ 
consequently, avoid 1 How ought a discourse, as far as possible, be carried 
on ; and not in what strain I 



Lect. 27.] THE PULPIT. 221 

much as possible, a discourse ought to be carried on in a 
strain of direct address to the audience ; not in the strain of 
one writing an essay, but of one speaking to a multitude, 
and studying to connect what is called application, or what 
has an immediate reference to practice, with the doctrinal 
and didactic parts of the sermon. 

It is a great advantage to keep always in view, the differ¬ 
ent ages, characters, and conditions of men, and to accom¬ 
modate directions and exhortations to each of these different 
classes. Whenever you bring forth what a man feels to 
touch his own character, or to suit his own circumstances, 
you are sure of his attention. No study, therefore, is more 
necessary for a preacher, than the study of human life, and 
of the human heart. To be able to unfold the heart, and to 
discover a man to himself, in a light in which he never saw 
his own character before, produces a wonderful effect. As 
long as a preacher hovers in a cloud of general observations, 
and descends not to trace the particular lines and features of 
manners, the audience are apt to think themselves uncon¬ 
cerned in the description. It is the striking accuracy of the 
moral characters that gives the chief power and effect to 
a preacher’s discourse. Hence, examples founded on histo¬ 
rical facts, and drawn from real life, of which kind the 
scriptures afford many, always, when they are well chosen, 
command high attention. Those sermons, therefore, though 
the most difficult in composition, are not only the most beau¬ 
tiful, but also the most useful, which are founded on the 
illustration of some character, or remarkable piece of history, 
in the sacred writings; by the pursuit of which, we may 
trace, and lay open, some of the most secret windings of 
the human heart. Other topics of preaching have become 
trite and common; but this is an extensive field, has 
hitherto been little explored, and possesses all the advan¬ 
tages of being curious, new, and in the highest degree 
useful. Bishop Butler’s sermon on the Character of Ba¬ 
laam , is a good example of this kind of preaching. 

In the fifth and last place, the model of preaching should 

What is always of great advantage ; and why 1 What study is, there¬ 
fore, of great importance to the preacher ; and what produces a wonderful 
effect 1 When are an audience apt to think themselves unconcerned in a 
description % What is it that gives the chief power and effect to a preach¬ 
er’s discourse ; and hence what command high attention 1 What sermons, 
therefore, are both the most useful and the most ^beautiful; and why * 
What sermon is a good example of this kind of preaching'? What is, in 
the fifth and last place, remarked; and of these, what is observed I 



222 


ELOQUENCE OF [Lect. 27. 

never be taken from any particular fashion that may chance 
to prevail. These are torrents which swell to-day, and will 
have spent themselves by to-morrow. Sometimes poetical 
preaching is fashionable, and sometimes philosophical: at 
one time it must be all pathetic ; at another all argumen¬ 
tative, according as some celebrated preacher has set the 
example. Each of these modes, in the extreme, is very 
faulty; and he who conforms himself to any one of them, 
will both confine his genius, and corrupt it. It is the uni¬ 
versal taste of mankind which is subject to no such changing 
modes, that alone is entitled to any authority; and this will 
never give its sanction to any strain of preaching, but what 
is founded on human nature, connected with usefulness, 
adapted to the proper idea of a sermon, as a serious, per¬ 
suasive oration, delivered to a multitude, in order to make 
them better men. Truth and good sense are firm, and will 
establish themselves; mode and humor are feeble and fluc¬ 
tuating. No example, however admired, should be impli¬ 
citly followed. From various examples, the preacher may 
collect materials for improvement; but the servility of 
imitation will extinguish his genius, or expose its poverty to 
his hearers. 

The style which the pulpit requires must be very per¬ 
spicuous. As discourses spoken there, are calculated for 
the instruction of all sorts of hearers, plainness and sim¬ 
plicity should reign in them. All unusual words should be 
avoided; especially all words that are merely poetical, or 
merely philosophical. Young preachers are apt to be 
caught with the glare of these; and in young composers the 
error may be excusable : but they may be assured that it is 
an error, and proceeds from their not having yet acquired a 
correct taste. The language of sacred scripture, properly 
employed, is a great ornament to sermons. It may be 
introduced, either in the way of quotation, or allusion. 
Direct quotations, brought from scripture, in order to sup¬ 
port what the preacher inculcates, both give authority to his 


What illustrations follow; and what is said of each of these modes 1 
What is subject to no such changing modes; and what is remarked of it 1 
What is respectively observed of truth and good sense, and of mode and 
humor; and what remarks follow ! In the style of sermons, why should 
plainness and simplicity reign ; and what should be avoided! Of young 
preachers in this respect, what is remarked; but of what may they be 
assured 1 What is a great ornament to sermons; and how may it be 
introduced 1 How is this illustrated! 




Lect. 27.] THE PULPIT. 223 

doctrine, and render his discourse more solemn and im¬ 
pressive. Allusions to remarkable passages, or expressions 
of scripture, when introduced with propriety, have generally 
a pleasing effect. They afford the preacher a fund of meta¬ 
phorical expression which no other composition enjoys, and 
by means of which he can vary and enliven his style. 

Whether it be most proper to write sermons fully, and 
commit them accurately to memory, or to study only the 
matter and thoughts, and trust the expression to the delivery, 
perhaps no general rule can be given. Preachers, in the 
choice of either of these methods, must follow their different 
genius. The expressions which come warm and glowing 
from the heart, during the fervor of pronunciation, will 
often have a superior grace and energy to those which are 
studied in the retirement of the closet. But then this fluency 
and power of expression, cannot, at all times, he depended 
upon ; it is, therefore, proper to begin, at least, the practice 
of preaching, with writing as accurately as possible. This 
is, at the commencement, absolutely necessary, in order to 
acquire the power and habit of both speaking and thinking 
correctly upon religious subjects. After habits of correct¬ 
ness shall have been thoroughly formed, the preacher may 
venture to relax, in a degree, his attention to this subject. 


About what can no general rule be given; and what must*preachers,m 
the choice of either method, follow 'l What advantage attends studying 
the matter and thoughts only ? But as the fluency cannot, at all times, be 
depended upon, how is it proper to begin; and why ? 


ANALYSIS. 


Pulpit eloquence. 

1. Its advantages. 

2. The difficulties that attend it. 
^A An objection to it considered. 

3. An habitual view of its object 

essential. 

4. The character of the preacher. 

5. The characteristics of pulpit 

eloquence. 

6. Directions for composing ser¬ 

mons. 


A. Unity to be attended to. 

B. The subject to be particular. 

C. Not to be exhausted. 

D. The instructions to be inter¬ 

esting. 

a. Knowledge of human na¬ 
ture. 

E. No particular model to bo 

followed. 

7. The style. 

8. Reading sermons considered. 





LECTURE XXVIII. 

CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE IN ALL ITS 
PARTS—INTRODUCTION—DIVISION- 
NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 

Having already considered what is peculiar to the three 
great fields of public speaking—popular assemblies, the bar, 
and the pulpit, we shall now treat of what is common to 
them all; and explain the conduct of a discourse, or oration, 
in general. 

The parts that compose a regular formal oration are the 
following six : first, the exordium or introduction ; secondly, 
the state, and the division of the subject; thirdly, narration 
or explication ; fourthly, the reasoning or arguments ; fifthly, 
the pathetic part; and lastly, the conclusion. It is not 
necessary that each of these should enter into every public 
discourse, or that they should be introduced in the order 
here mentioned. There is no reason for being so formal on 
every occasion; nay, it would often be a fault, and would 
render a discourse pedantic and stiff. There are many ex¬ 
cellent discourses in which some of these parts are altogether 
omitted. But as they are the natural and constituent parts 
of a regular oration, and as, in every discourse, some of 
them must occur, it is agreeable to our present purpose, to 
examine each of them distinctly. 

We begin, of course, with the introduction. This is 
evidently common to all the three kinds of public speaking. 
It is not a rhetorical figure, but is founded upon nature, and 
suggested by common sense. When one is going to counsel 
another—when he takes it upon himself to instruct, or to 
reprove, prudence will generally direct him not to do it 
abruptly,'but to use some preparation—to begin with some 
thing that may incline the person to whom he addresses 
himself, to judge favorably of what he is about to say, and 


Having considered what is peculiar to the eloquence of popular assem¬ 
blies, of the bar, and of the pulpit, of what shall we now treat I What 
six parts compose a regular formal oration I Of these what is remarked; 
and why 1 But why should each of them be examined distinctly I With 
which do we begin; and of this, what is observed T How is this illus¬ 
trated 1 



Lect. 28.] INTRODUCTION. 225 

may dispose them to such a train of thought as will forward 
and assist the purpose which he has in view. Accordingly, 
the design of the introduction is, in the first place, to con¬ 
ciliate the good will of the hearers ; secondly, to excite their 
attention; and in the third place, to render them open to 
persuasion. 

Some one of these ends should be proposed by every intro¬ 
duction; unless the speaker is previously secure of the good 
will, the attention, and the docility of his audience. In that 
case, a formal introduction may, without any impropriety, be 
omitted. Respect for his hearers, will then require a short 
exordium only, to prepare them for the other parts of his 
discourse. 

Having made these general remarks on the nature and 
object of an introduction, we proceed to give some rules foi 
the proper composition of it. These are the more neces¬ 
sary, as this is a part of the discourse which requires great 
care. It is always of importance to begin well; to make a 
favorable impression at first setting out; when the minds of 
the hearers, as yet vacant and free, are most disposed to 
receive any impression easily. We must add, also, that a 
good introduction is often found to be extremely difficult. 
Few parts of a discourse give more trouble to the composer, 
or require more delicacy in the execution. 

The first rule is, that the introduction should be easy and 
natural. It should always be suggested by the subject. The 
writer should not plan it, till after he has meditated, in his 
own mind, the substance of his discourse. By taking a con¬ 
trary course, and composing in the first place an introduction, 
the writer will often find, that he is either led to lay hold of 
some commonplace topic, or that, instead of the introduction 
being accommodated to the discourse, he is under the ne¬ 
cessity of accommodating the whole discourse to the intro¬ 
duction which he had previously written. 

In the second place, in an introduction, correctness of 


Accordingly, what is the design of the introduction 'l Without what, 
should some one of these ends be proposed by every introduction 1 In that 
case, what may be omitted ; what will respect for his hearers require ; and 
why 1 Having made these general remarks, to give what do we proceed ; 
and why are these the more necessary 'l What is always of importance ; 
and what must we also add ? What remark follows ] What the first 
rule; and by what should it always be suggested 1 Till when should the 
writer not plan it; and what is the effect of a contrary course l In the 
second place, what should be carefully studied; and why is this particularly 
requisite I 



226 INTRODUCTION. [Lect. 2a 

expression should be carefully studied. This is particularly 
requisite on account of the situation of the hearers. At the 
beginning they are more disposed to criticise than at any 
other period; they are then unoccupied with the subject or 
the arguments; their attention is wholly directed to the 
speaker’s style and manner. Care, therefore, is requisite, 
to prepossess them in his favor ; though too much art must 
be cautiously avoided, as it will then be more easily detected, 
and will derogate from that persuasion which the other parts 
of the discourse are intended to produce. 

In the third place, modesty is also an indispensable charac¬ 
teristic of every judicious introduction. If the speaker begins 
with an air of arrogance and ostentation, the self-love and 
pride of his hearers will be presently awakened, and will 
follow him, with a very suspicious eye, through the rest of 
his discourse. His modesty should appear, not only in his 
expressions, but in his whole manner—in his looks, in his 
gestures, and in the tones of his voice. Every audience is 
flattered by those marks of respect and awe which are paid 
them by the person who addresses them. The modesty of 
an introduction, however, should betray nothing mean or 
abject. It is always of great advantage to an orator, that, 
together with modesty and deference to h is hearers, he show 
a certain sense of dignity, arising from a persuasion of the 
justice or importance of the subject on which he is to speak. 

In the fourth place, except in particular cases, the orator 
should not put forth all his strength at the beginning ; but 
should rise and grow upon his hearers as his discourse ad¬ 
vances. The introduction is seldom the place for vehemence 
and passion. The audience must be gradually prepared, 
before the speaker can venture on strong and impassioned 
sentiments. Yet when the subject is of such a nature, that 
the very mention of it naturally awakens some passionate 
emotion; or when the unexpected presence of some person 
or object in a popular assembly, inflames the speaker; either 
of these will justify an abrupt and vehement exordium. 

What is their situation at the beginning ; and why is care their requi¬ 
site'? What must, at the same time, be cautiously avoided; and why*? 
What, in tne third place, is indispensable; and why is it the case? In 
lyhat should his modesty appear ; and by what is every audience flattered I 
What, however, should not the modesty of an introduction betray; and 
what is always of great advantage to an orator I What is, in the fourth 
place, remarked; and why I The audience must be gradually prepared 
before the speaker can enter upon - hat; yet what will justify an abrupt 
and vehement exordium ? 



Lect. 28.] INTRODUCTION. 227 

Thus, the appearance of Catiline in the Roman senate, ren¬ 
ders the violent opening of Cicero’s first oration against him, 
very natural and proper. ‘ Quousque tandem, Catilina, 
abutere patientia nostra V And Bishop Atterbury, in 
preaching from this text, 4 Blessed is he whosoever shall not 
be offended in me,’ ventures on this bold exordium : 4 And 
can any man then be offended in thee, blessed Jesus?* 
Which address to our Savior he continues for some time, 
till he enters on the division of his subject. But these 
introductions should be attempted by very few, as they pro¬ 
mise so much vehemence and ardor through the rest of the 
discourse, that it is extremely difficult to satisfy the expecta¬ 
tion of the hearers. 

In the fifth place, the introduction should not anticipate 
any material part of the subject. When the topics or argu¬ 
ments, which are afterwards to be enlarged upon, are 
hinted at, and, in part, exhibited in the introduction, they 
lose, upon their second appearance, the grace of novelty. 
The impression intended to be made by any principal idea, 
is always made with the greatest advantage, when it is made 
entire, and in its proper place. 

In the last place, the introduction ought to be proportioned, 
both in length and in kind, to the discourse that is to follow: 
in length, as nothing can be more absurd than to erect a very 
great portico before a small building; and in kind, as it is no 
less absurd to overcharge, with superb ornaments, the portico 
of a plain dwelling-house, or to make the entrance to a 
monument as gay as that to an arbor. Common sense di¬ 
rects that every part of a discourse should be suited to the 
strain and spirit of the whole. 

After the introduction, what generally comes next in 
order, is the proposition or annunciation of the subject; con-. 
cerning which we shall only observe, that it should be as 
clear and distinct as possible, and expressed without affecta¬ 
tion, in the most concise and simple manner. To this 
generally succeeds the division of the discourse; on which 


What examples of illustration follow; and what is remarked of them % 
But why should these introductions be attempted by very few 1 What, in 
the fifth place, is remarked; and why 1 When is the impression intended 
to be made by any principal idea, always made with the greatest advan¬ 
tage 1 In the last place, to what should the introduction be proportioned ; 
and for what reason 1 What does common sense direct 'l What generally 
comes next to the introduction; and concerning it, what only is observed 1 
To this what generally succeeds ; but of it, what is not to be understood 1 




228 DIVISION. [Lect. 28. 

it is necessary to make some remarks. It is not to be under¬ 
stood that in every discourse, a formal division or distribution 
of its parts is required. There are many occasions of pub¬ 
lic speaking 1 when this is neither requisite nor would be 
proper ; when the discourse, perhaps, is to be short, or only 
one point is to be treated of; or when the speaker does not 
choose to warn his hearers of the method he is to follow, or 
of the conclusion to which he seeks to bring them. Order 
of one kind or other, is, indeed, essential to every good dis¬ 
course—that is, every thing should be so arranged, as that 
what goes before may give light and force to what follows. 
But this may be accomplished by means of a concerted me¬ 
thod. What we call division is, w T hen the method is pro¬ 
pounded in form to the hearers ; and in the management of 
it, the following rules should be carefully observed. 

First, the several parts into which the subject is divided 
should be really distinct from each other—that is, that no 
one include another. It were a very absurd division, for 
instance, if a.speaker should attempt to treat, first, of the 
advantages of virtue, and next, of those of justice or tem¬ 
perance ; because, the first head evidently comprehends the 
second, as a genus does the species. Such a method of pro¬ 
ceeding will, therefore, involve the subject in indistinctness 
and disorder. 

Secondly, we must be careful always to follow the order 
of nature ; beginning with the most simple points, such as 
are most easily understood, and necessary to be first dis¬ 
cussed ; and proceeding thence to those which are built upon 
the former, and which suppose them to be known. The 
subject, in fact, must be divided into those parts into whiclf 
it is most easily and naturally resolved. 

Thirdly, the members of a division ought to exhaust the 
subject, otherwise the division is incomplete; the subject 
exhibited by pieces and corners only, without any plan being 
offered by which the whole may be displayed. 


On what occasions, is this neither requisite nor proper 7 What is, in¬ 
deed, essential to every good discourse; and what is meant by it ? But 
how may this be accomplished; and what remark follows 'l In the man¬ 
agement of this, what is the first rule to be observed 'l What would be 
a very absurd division; and why ? What will be the effect of such a 
method of proceeding 'l In the second place, what order must we follow ; 
and how is this illustrated 7 The subject must, in fact, be divided into 
what parts % In the third place, why should the members of the division 
exhaust the subject ? 




Lect. 28.] NARRATION. 229 

Fourthly, the terms in which our partitions are expressed, 
should be as concise as possible. A division will always ap¬ 
pear to the most advantage, when the several heads are ex¬ 
pressed in the clearest, most forcible, and at the same time, the 
fewest words possible. This never fails to make an agree¬ 
able impression on the hearers ; and contributes, also, to 
make the divisions more easily remembered. 

Fifthly, an unnecessary multiplication of heads should he 
cautiously avoided. To divide a subject into a great many 
minute parts, by endless divisions and subdivisions, has 
always a bad effect in speaking. In a logical treatise this 
may not be improper ; but it renders, an oration hard and 
dry, and unnecessarily fatigues the memory. A sermon may 
admit from three to five or six heads, including subdi¬ 
visions ; seldom are more allowable. 

The next constituent part of a discourse, which we men¬ 
tioned, was narration or explication. These two are joined 
together, both because they fall nearly under the same rules, 
and because they generally answer the same purpose; 
serving to illustrate the cause, or the subject of which the 
orator treats, before he proceeds to argue either on the one 
side or the other; or to make any attempt for interesting the 
passions of the hearers. 

In pleadings at the bar, narration is often a very impor¬ 
tant part of the discourse, and requires to be particularly 
attended to. Besides its being in any case, no easy matter 
to relate with grace and propriety ; there is in narration at 
the bar, a peculiar difficulty. The pleader must say nothing 
hut what is true; and, at the same time, he must avoid say¬ 
ing any thing that will injure his cause. The facts which 
he relates, are to he the ground-work of all his future 
reasoning. To recount them so as to keep strictly within 
the bounds of truth, and yet to present them under the colors 
most favorable to his cause, demands no small exertion ot 
skill and dexterity. 


What is, in the fourth place, observed; and when will a division always 
appear to the most advantage ! Of this, what is remarked] In the fifth 
place, what should be avoided; and what has always a bad effect in speak¬ 
ing I Where may this not be improper; but what is its effect on oration 1 
Of how many divisions may a sermon admit ! What is the next con¬ 
stituent part of a discourse; and why are these two joined together! 
Why does narration, in pleadings at the bar, require to be particularly 
attended to ; and what are the pleader’s difficulties ! What demands no 
small exertion of skill and dexterity 1 
20 



230 EXPLICATION. [Lect. 28. 

To be clear and distinct, to be probable, and to be concise, 
are the qualities which writers chiefly consider as essential 
to narration. Distinctness is requisite to the whole of the 
discourse, but belongs especially to narration, which ought 
to throw a light on all that follows. At the bar, a fact, or a 
single circumstance left in obscurity, or misunderstood by 
the judge, may destroy the effect of all the argument and 
reasoning which the pleader employs. If his narration 
be improbable, it will be disregarded; if it is tedious and 
diffuse, it will fatigue, and be forgotten. To render varia¬ 
tion distinct, a particular attention is requisite in ascertaining, 
clearly, the names, the dates, the places, and every other 
important circumstance of the facts recounted. In order to 
be probable in narration, it is necessary to exhibit the cha¬ 
racters of those persons of whom we speak, and to show 
that their actions proceed from such motives as are natural, 
and likely to gain belief. To be as concise as the subject 
will admit, all superfluous circumstances must be rejected, 
by which the narration will be rendered both more forcible 
and more clear. 

In sermons, where there is seldom any occasion for nar¬ 
ration, explication of the subject to be discoursed on occupies 
the place of narration at the bar, and is to be conducted in a 
similar manner. It must be concise, clear, and distinct; in 
a style correct and elegant, rather than abounding with orna¬ 
ment. To explain the doctrine of the text with propriety; 
to give a full and clear account of the nature of that virtue 
or duty which forms the subject of the discourse, is properly 
the didactic part of preaching; on the right execution of 
which much depends for what comes afterwards in the way 
of persuasion. In order to succeed, the preacher must 
meditate profoundly on the subject, so as to place it in a clear 
and striking point of view. He must consider what light it 
may derive from other passages of scripture ; observe whe¬ 
ther it be a subject nearly allied to some other from which 
it ought to be distinguished; whether it can be advan¬ 
tageously illustrated by comparing, or opposing it to some 


What do writers think essential to narration*; and what remark follows 'i 
How is this illustrated'? To render narration distinct, to what is particu¬ 
lar attention requisite 1 ? In order to be probable in narration, what is 
necessary; and what remark follows 'l In sermons what occupies the 
place of narration ; and what properties must it possess 'l What is pro¬ 
perly the didactic part of preaching; and what is said of it 'l In order to 
succeed, what must the preacher do; and what remark follows 'l 



Lect. 28.] 


EXPLICATION. 


231 


other thing; by searching into causes, or tracing effects ; 
hy pointing out examples, or appealing to the hearts of the 
hearers; that thus, a determined, precise, and circumstan¬ 
tial view, may be afforded of the doctrine inculcated. By 
such distinct and apt illustrations of the known truths of re¬ 
ligion, a preacher may both display great merit as a com¬ 
poser, and, what is infinitely more valuable, render his 
discourses weighty, instructive, and beneficial. 


/ 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The component parts of a dis- 


A. The introduction. 

a. To be easy and natural. 

b. To be correct in the ex¬ 


course. 


C. The division. 

a. The parts to be distinct. 

b. The order of nature to be 


followed. 

c. The members to exhaust 


pression. 

c. To be modest. 

d. To be calmly conducted. 

e. Not to anticipate the sub- 


the style. 

d*The division to be expressed 


with precision. 

e. The heads not to be unne- 


B. The enunciation. 


ject. 


D. Narration or explication. 


cessarily multiplied. 







LECTURE XXIX. 

THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART OE A DIS¬ 
COURSE—THE PATHETIC PART— 

THE PERORATION. 

Since the great end for which men speak on any serious 
occasion, is to convince their hearers that something is either 
true, or right, or good; and consequently to influence their 
practice; reason and argument must constitute the founda¬ 
tion of all manly and persuasive eloquence. 

With respedt to arguments, three things are requisite: 
first, the invention of them ; secondly, their proper dispo¬ 
sition and arrangement; and thirdly, the expressing of them 
in such a style and manner, as to give them their full force. 

The first of these, invention, is, doubtless, the most material, 
and the groundwork of the rest. But with respect to this, 
art can afford but small assistance. It can aid a speaker, 
however, in arranging and expressing those arguments 
which his knowledge of the subject has discovered. The 
ancient rhetoricians attempted to go much farther than this. 
They formed rhetoric into a more complete system ; and 
professed not only to assist public speakers in setting off 
their arguments to most advantage, but ‘to supply the defect 
of their invention, and to teach them where to find arguments 
on every subject and cause. Hence their doctrine of topics, 
or 4 Loci Communes’ and 4 Sedes argumentorum,’ which 
makes so great a figure in the writings of Aristotle, Cicero, 
and Quintilian. These topics, or loci, were no other than 
general ideas applicable to a great many different subjects, 
which the orator was directed to consult, in order to find out 
materials for his speech. As in demonstrative orations, for 
instance, the heads from which any one could be decried or 
praised ; his birth, his country, his education, his kindred, 
the qualities of his body, the qualities of his mind, the for- 


Why must reason and argument constitute the foundation of all elo¬ 
quence'? With respect to arguments, what three things are requisite 1 
Of the first of these, what is remarked; and what only can art here do ? 
On this subject, what did the ancient rhetoricians do; and hence what 
doctrines 1 What were these topics; and of this remark, what illustration 
follows 1 





Lect 29.] ARGUMENTATIVE PART. 233 

tune he enjoyed, the station he had filled, &c. ; and in 
deliberative orations, the topics that might be used in recom¬ 
mending any public measure, or dissuading from it; such as 
honesty, justice, facility, profit, pleasure, glory, assistance 
from friends, mortification to enemies, and the like. But 
such discourse can be no other than trivial. What is truly 
solid and persuasive, must be drawn from a thorough know¬ 
ledge of the subject, and profound meditation on it. They 
who would direct students of oratory to any other sources of 
argumentation, only delude them; and by attempting to 
render rhetoric too perfect an art, they render it, in fact, a 
trifling and childish study. 

We proceed, now, to point out the assistance that can be 
given, not with respect to the invention, but with respect to 
the disposition and conduct of arguments. 

Two different methods may be used by orators, in the con¬ 
duct of their reasoning.; the terms for which are, the 
analytic, and the synthetic method. The analytic is, when 
the orator conceals his intention concerning the point he is 
to prove, till he has gradually brought his hearers to the 
designed conclusion. As, for instance, when one intended 
to prove the being of a God, sets out with observing that 
every thing which he sees in the world has had a beginning ; 
that whatever has had a beginning, must have a prior cause; 
that in human productions, art shown in the effect, necessa¬ 
rily infers design in the cause : and proceeds leading you on 
from one cause to another, till you arrive at one supreme 
first cause, from whom is derived all the order and design 
visible in his works. This is much the same as the Socratic 
method, by which that philosopher silenced the sophists of 
his age. It is a very artful method of reasoning; may be 
carried on with much beauty, and is proper to be used when 
the hearers are strongly prejudiced against any truth, and 
must be led to conviction, by imperceptible steps. 

But there are few subjects that will admit of this method, 
and not many occasions on which it is proper to employ it. 


Of such discourse what is remarked ; and from whence must what is 
truly solid be drawn % Of those who direct students of oratory to any 
other sources of argumentation, what is observed % To what do we now 
proceed 7 What two methods may be used by orators in the conduct of 
their reasonings 1 Of the analytic, what is remarked ; and what instance 
of illustration is given'l This is much the same as what method; and 
what is said of it ? But as there are few subjects that will admit of this 
method, what mode of reasoning is more generally used; and what is it 



234 ARGUMENTATIVE PART [Lect. 29. 

The mode of reasoning more generally used, and best suited 
to the train of popular speaking, is what is called the syn 
thetic ; when the point to be proved is fairly laid down, 
and one argument upon another is made to bear upon it, till 
the hearers are fully convinced. But whatever course may 
be pursued, it is evident that much will depend on the right 
arrangement of the arguments used; so that they shall not 
jostle and embarrass one another, but give mutual aid ; and 
bear with the fairest and fullest direction on the point in 
view. Concerning this, the following rules may be taken : 

In the first place, avoid blending arguments together, that 
are of a separate nature. All arguments whatever, are in¬ 
tended to prove one or the other of these three things—that 
something is true; that it is morally right or fit; or that it 
is profitable and good. Truth, duty, and interest, are the 
three great subjects of discussion among mankind. But the 
arguments employed upon either of them, must be generi- 
cally distinct, and he who blends them all under one topic, 
which he calls his argument, as in sermons, especially, is 
too often done, will render his reasoning indistinct and negli¬ 
gent. 

In the second place, with regard to the different degrees 
of strength in argument, the general rule is to advance in 
the way of climax, from the weakest to the most forcible. 
This method is to be recommended when the speaker is con¬ 
vinced that his course is clear, and easy to be proved. But 
this rule must not be always followed. If he be appre¬ 
hensive of his cause, and has but one material argument on 
which to lay the stress, putting less confidence in the rest, in 
this case it is often proper to place his most forcible argu¬ 
ment in the front; to prejudice his hearers as early as 
possible in his favor, and dispose them to pay attention to 
the weaker reasoning which he may afterwards introduce. 
When, amidst a variety of arguments, there are one or two 
more feeble than the rest, though proper to be used, Cicero 


But whatever course may be pursued, on what will much depend ; and 
why % Concerning this, what is the first rule given 'l To prove what are 
all arguments whatever, intended; and what are the three great subjects 
of discussion among mankind 'l But as the arguments employed upon 
either of them must be generically distinct, what follows 'l In the second 
place, with regard to the different degrees of strength in argument, what is 
the general rule 1 When is this method recommended ; but under what 
. ircumstances must it not be followed'? When, amidst a variety of argu¬ 
ments, there are one or two more feeble than the rest, what course does 
ficero advise 1 



Lect. 29.] OF A DISCOURSE. 235 

advises that they be placed in the middle, as a situation less 
conspicuous than either the beginning or the end of the train 
of reasoning. 

In the third place, when our arguments are strong and 
satisfactory, the more they are distinguished, and treated 
separately from each other, the better. Each can then hear 
to be introduced alone, placed in its full light, amplified, and 
contemplated. But when they are of a doubtful or presump¬ 
tive kind, it is safer to crowd them together, to form them 
into a phalanx, that though individually weak, they may 
mutually support each other. 

In the fourth place, arguments should never be extended 
too far, or multiplied too much. This serves rather to render 
a cause suspicious, than to increase its strength. A need¬ 
less multiplicity of arguments, both burthen the memory, 
and detract from the weight of that conviction which a few 
well chosen arguments might produce. To expound them, 
also, beyond the bounds of reasonable illustration, is always 
enfeebling. It takes off from that ‘vis et acumen,’ which 
should be the distinguishing character of the argumentative 
part of a discourse. When a speaker endeavors to expose 
a favorite argument in every possible point of view, it 
generally happens that, fatigued with the effort, he loses the 
spirit with which he set out, and ends with feebleness what 
he began with force. 

Having attended, thus far, to the proper arrangement of 
arguments, we proceed to another essential part of a dis¬ 
course—the pathetic ; in which, if any where, eloquence 
reigns, and exerts its power. On this head we shall offer 
the following directions, which appear worthy of being 
remembered. 

The first is, to consider carefully, whether the subject admit 
the pathetic, and render it proper; and if it does, what part of 
the discourse is most fit for attempting it. To determine these 
points, good sense is the only criterion ; for it is evident that 
there are many subjects that admit not the pathetic at all, and 


In the third place, what is remarked; and why? But when they are 
of a doubtful kind, what course i3 the safer; and why ? What, in the 
fourth place, is observed of arguments; what is its effect; and why? 
What is, also, always enfeebling; and from what does it take off? What 
illustrative remark follows] Having attended, thus far, to the proper 
arrangement of arguments, to what do we next proceed ? On this head, 
what is the first direction offered I To determine these points, what is 
the only criterion: and why ? 



236 THE PATHETIC PART [Lect. 29 

that even in those that are susceptible of it, an attempt to ex¬ 
cite the passions in the wrong place, may expose the orator to 
ridicule. It may in general be observed, that if we expect 
any emotion which we raise to have a lasting effect, we 
must secure in our favor the understanding and judgment. 
The hearers must be satisfied, that there are sufficient 
grounds for their engaging in the cause with zeal and ardor. 
They must be able to justify to themselves the passion which 
they feel; and remain satisfied that they are not carried 
away by mere delusion. Unless their minds be brought 
into this state, although they may have been heated by the 
orator’s discourse, yet, as soon as he ceases to speak, they 
will resume their ordinary tone of thought; and the emotion 
which he has raised will die entirely away. Hence most 
writers assign the pathetic to the conclusion, as its natural 
place, this being the impression that one would choose to 
make last, leaving the minds of the hearers warmed with 
the subject, after argument and reasoning had produced 
their full effect. 

In the second place, never set apart a head of a discourse 
in form, for raising any passion ; never give warning that 
you are about to be pathetic, and call upon your hearers, as 
is sometimes done, to follow you in the attempt. Every pre¬ 
vious preparation of this kind chills their sensibility. There 
is also a material difference between showing those to whom 
you speak, that they ought to be moved, and actually ex¬ 
citing their passions. To every emotion or passion, nature 
has adapted certain corresponding objects; and without 
setting these before the mind, it is impossible for an orator to 
excite that emotion. We are warmed with gratitude, we 
are touched with compassion, not when a speaker shows us 
that these are noble dispositions, and that it is our duty to 
feel them, or whenHie exclaims against us for our indiffer¬ 
ence and coldness. He is, all this time, addressing our rea¬ 
son and conscience only. He must point to us the kindness 
and tenderness of our friends; he must exhibit the distress suf¬ 
fered by the person for whom he would interest us; then, and 


What may, in general, be observed ; and of the hearers what is re¬ 
marked 1 Unless their minds be brought into this state, what will follow 1 
Hence what course do most writers pursue ; and for what reason I In the 
second place, what must never be done; and why I Between what is 
there a material difference; and how is this illustrated I When are we 
warmed with gratitude, and touched with compassion 'l 



Lect. 29.J OF A DISCOURSE. 237 

not till then, our hearts begin to be touched, our gratitude or 
our compassion begins to flow. The foundation, therefore, 
of all successful execution in pathetic oratory is, to paint the 
object of that passion Avhich we wish to raise, in the most 
natural and striking manner ; to describe it with such cir¬ 
cumstances as are likely to awaken it in the minds of others. 
Every passion is most strongly excited by sensation ; as 
anger, by the feeling of an injury, or the presence of the 
mjurer. Next to the influence of sense, is that of memory; 
and next to memory is the influence of imagination. Of 
this power, therefore, the orator must avail himself, so as to 
Strike the imagination of the hearers with circumstances 
which, in lustre and steadiness, resemble those of sensation 
and resemblance. In order to accomplish this, the only 
effectual method is to be moved ourselves. There are a 
thousand interesting circumstances suggested by real pas- 
sion, which no art can imitate, and no refinement supply. 
The passions are obviously contagious. The internal 
emotion of the speaker adds a pathos to his words, his looks, 
his gestures, and his whole manner, which exerts a power 
almost irresistible over those who hear him. 

In the third place, to succeed in the pathetic, it is neces¬ 
sary to attend to the proper language of the passions. This, 
if we consult nature, we shall ever find is unaffected and 
simple. It may be animated with bold and strong figures, 
but it will have no ornament or finery. There is a material 
difference between painting to the imagination and to the 
heart. The one may be done with deliberation and cool¬ 
ness ; the other mast always be rapid and ardent. In the 
former, art and labor may be suffered to appear ; in the 
latter, no proper effect can be produced, unless it seem to be 
the work of nature only. Hence all digressions should be 7 
avoided, which may interrupt or turn aside the swell of 
passion. Hence comparisons are always dangerous, and 
commonly quite improper in the midst of the pathetic. It 

What, therefore, is the foundation of all successful execution in pathetic 
oratory ? How is every passion most easily excited; and how is this 
illustrated ? What influences succeed the influence of sense, in order; 
and of this power, therefore, why must the orator avail himself'l To 
accomplish this, what is the only effectual method ; and how is this re¬ 
mark illustrated ? What, in the third place, is necessary to succeed in 
the pathetic; and what shall we ever find this to be ? With what may it 
be animated ; but what will it not have 'l Between what is there a mate¬ 
rial difference; and how is this illustrated? Hence, what should be 
avoided j what is also to be observed j and what remark follows 1 



238 THE PERORATION. [Lect. 29. 

is also to be observed, that emotions which are violent can¬ 
not be lasting. The pathetic, therefore, should not be pro¬ 
longed and extended too much. A due regard should 
always be preserved to what the audience will bear; for he 
that attempts to carry them farther in passion, than they will 
follow him, annihilates his purpose—by endeavoring to 
warm them in the extreme, he takes the surest method of 
freezing them completely. 

Concerning the peroration or conclusion of a discourse, a 
few words will be sufficient. Sometimes the whole pathetic 
part comes in most properly at the conclusion. Sometimes, 
when the discourse has been altogether argumentative, it is 
proper to conclude with summing up the arguments, placing 
them in one point of view, and leaving the impression of 
them full and strong on the minds of the hearers. For the 
principal rule of a conclusion, and that which nature ob¬ 
viously suggests, is, to place that last, on which we choose 
that the strength of our cause should rest. 

In every kind of public speaking, it is important to hit the 
precise time of concluding, so as to bring the discourse just 
to a point, neither ending abruptly and unexpectedly, nor 
disappointing the expectation of the hearers, when they 
look for the discourse to be finished. The close should 
always be effected with dignity and spirit, that the minds ol 
the hearers may be left warm, and that they may depart with 
a favorable impression of the subject and of the speaker. 


To what should a due regard always be preserved; and why 'l Con¬ 
cerning the conclusion of a discourse, what is observed'? Under different 
circumstances, what different courses are proper 1 What is the principal 
rule of a conclusion'? In every kind of public speaking, what is im¬ 
portant'? How should the close always be effected; and why 'l 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The arguments of a discourse. 

A. The invention of arguments. 

B. The analytic and synthetic 

methods. 

2. The proper disposition of argu¬ 

ments. 

A. Not to be blended together. 

B. The order of climax to be 

observed. 

C. Strong arguments to be treat¬ 

ed distinctly. 


D. Not to be extended too far. 

3. The pathetic part of a discourse 

A. Discretion to be observed. 

B. The hearers not to be warned 

to prepare for it. 
a. The speaker to be, himself, 
affected. 

C. The language of passion to 

be observed. 

4. The conclusion. 






LECTURE XXX. 

PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 


The great objects to which every public speaker should 
direct his attention, in forming his delivery, are, first to 
speak so as to be fully understood by all who hear him ; and 
next, to express himself with such grace and energy, as to 
please and to move his audience. 

In order to be fully and easily understood, the four chief 
requisites are, a due degree of loudness of voice, distinct¬ 
ness, slowness, and propriety of pronunciation. 

The first attention of every public speaker, doubtless, must 
be, to enable those to whom he speaks, to hear him. He 
must endeavor to fill with his voice, the space occupied by 
the assembly. Though this power of voice is, in a great 
measure, a natural talent, it may receive considerable 
assistance from art. Much depends on the proper pitch and 
management of the voice. This may be distinguished by 
three gradations—the high, the middle, and the low. The 
high is used in calling aloud to some one at a distance ; the 
low approaches to a whisper : the middle is that which is 
employed in common conversation, and which should ge¬ 
nerally be used in public speaking ; for it is erroneous to 
suppose, that the highest pitch of the voice is requisite to be 
well heard by a great assembly. This is confounding two 
things materially different—loudness, or strength of sound, 
with the key or note on which we speak. The voice may 
be rendered louder without altering the key; and the speaker 
will always be able to give most body, most persevering 
force of sound, to that pitch of voice to which, in conver¬ 
sation, he is accustomed. Whereas, if he begin on the 
highest pitch of his voice, he will fatigue himself, and speak 
with pain ; and whenever a man speaks with pain to him- 


To what should every public speaker direct his attention in forming his 
delivery 'l To be fully and easily understood, what are the four chief re¬ 
quisites ] What must be he first attention of every public speaker; and 
what remarks follow 'l On what does much depend; how may this be 
distinguished; and of them, respectively, what is remarked 1 What is 
this confounding; and as the voice may be rendered louder without altering 
the key, what follows 1 Whereas, if he begin on the highest pitch, what 
will follow; and of the voice, therefore, what is farther observed 1 



240 PRONUNCIATION, LUect. 30 

self, he is always heard with pain by his audience. To the 
voice, therefore, may be given full strength and swell of 
sound; but it should always be pitched on the ordinary 
speaking key; a greater quantity of voice should never be 
uttered than can be afforded without pain, and without any 
extraordinary effort. To be well heard, it is useful for a 
speaker to fix his eye on some of the most distant persons in 
the assembly, and to consider himself as speaking to them. 
We naturally and mechanically express our words with such 
a degree of strength, as to be heard by one to whom we 
address ourselves, provided he be situated within the reach 
of our voice. This will be the case in public speaking, as 
well as in common conversation. But it must be remem. 
bered, that speaking too loud is peculiarly offensive. The 
ear is wounded when the voice comes upon it in rumbling 
indistinct masses ; besides, it appears as if assent were de¬ 
manded by mere vehemence and force of sound. 

In the next place, to being well heard and clearly under¬ 
stood, distinctness of articulation is more conducive, per¬ 
haps, than mere loudness of sound. The quantity of sound 
requisite to fill even a large space, is less than is generally 
supposed; and with distinct articulation, a man of a weak 
voice will make it extend farther than the strongest voice can 
reach without it. This, therefore, demands peculiar atten¬ 
tion. The speaker must give every sound which he utters 
its due proportion, and make every syllable, and every 
letter, be heard distinctly. To succeed in this, a rapidity of 
pronunciation must be avoided. A lifeless, drawling me¬ 
thod, is, however, by no means to be adopted. To pronounce 
with a proper degree of slowness, and with full and clear 
articulation, cannot be too industriously studied, or too ear¬ 
nestly recommended. Such a pronunciation gives weight 
and dignity to language. It assists the voice, by the pauses 
and rests which it permits it more easily to make; and 
enables the speaker to swell all the sounds, both with more 
energy and more music. He may, by this means, preserve 
a due command over himself, and avoid that flutter of spirits 


To be well heard, what is useful; and why? But what must be re¬ 
membered ; and why is this the case ? In the next place, what is observed: 
and what remark follows? As this demands peculiar attention, what 
must the speaker do; and on this subject, what is farther remarked ? ’ What 
cannot be too earnestly studied; and why ? By this means, what may he 
do? 




Lect.30.] OR DELIVERS. 241 

produced by a rapid and hurried manner, which is destruc¬ 
tive of all finished oratory. 

In the third place, a public speaker must study propriety 
of pronunciation; or the giving to every word which he 
utters, that sound which the most* polite usage of the lan¬ 
guage appropriates to it, in opposition to a broad or vulgar 
pronunciation. On this subject, however, written instructions 
will avail nothing. But there is one observation which it 
may be useful to make: in our language, every word of 
more syllables than one, has one accented syllable. The 
genius of the language requires the voice to mark that syl¬ 
lable by a stronger percussion, and to pass more slightly 
over the rest. The same accent should be given to every 
word in public speaking as in common discourse. In this 
respect many persons are apt to err. When they speak in 
public, and with solemnity, they pronounce differently from 
what they do at other times. They dwell upon syllables, 
and protract them ; they multiply accents on the same word, 
from a false idea, that it adds gravity and strength to their 
discourse, and increases the pomp of public declamation. 
But this is one of the greatest faults that can be committed in 
pronunciation; it constitutes what is called a theatrical or 
mouthing manner, and gives an artificial, affected air to 
speech, which detracts, in a great degree, from its agree¬ 
ableness, and its impression. 

We shall now mention those higher parts of delivery, by 
studying which, a speaker endeavors, not mereiy to render 
himself intelligible, but to give grace and force to what he 
utters. These may be comprehended under four heads ; 
emphases, pauses, tones, and gestures. 

By emphasis is meant, a fuller and stronger sound of 
voice, by which we distinguish the accented syllable of some 
word on which we intend to lay a particular stress, and to 
show how it affects the rest of the sentence. To acquire the 
proper management of the emphasis, the principal, and 
indeed, the only rule which can be given is, that the speaker 
study to acquire a just conception of the force and spirit of 


In the third place, what must a public speaker study 'l Though, on this 
subject, written instructions will be unavailing, yet what observation may 
be useful 1 In this respect, how do many persons err ; but of this fault, 
what is remarked 'l What shall we now mention; and what is the effect 
of studying them 1 By emphasis what is meant; and to acquire the pro¬ 
per management of it, what is the only rule that can be given 1 

21 



242 PRONUNCIATION, [Lect. 30. 

those sentiments which he intends to deliver. In all pre¬ 
pared discourses, it would be extremely useful, if they were 
read over or repeated in private, with a view of searching 
for the proper emphasis, before they were pronounced in pub¬ 
lic ; marking, at the same time, the emphatical words in 
every sentence, or at least in the most important parts of 
the discourse, and fixing them well in the memory. A cau¬ 
tion, however, must, at the same time, he given against mul¬ 
tiplying the emphatical words too much. They only become 
striking when used with a prudent reserve. If they recur 
too frequently—if a speaker endeavors to render every thing 
that he says of high importance, by a multitude of strong 
emphases—they will soon fail to excite the attention of his 
hearers. 

Next to emphases, the pauses in speaking demand atten 
tion. They are of two kinds: first, emphatical pauses ; 
and secondly, such as mark the distinctions of sense. An 
emphatical pause is made, after something has been said of 
peculiar moment, and on which we wish to fix the hearers 
attention. Sometimes a matter of importance is preceded by 
a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the same effect 
as strong emphases, and are subject to the same rules ; par¬ 
ticularly to the caution just now given, of not repeating 
them too frequently. For since they excite particular at¬ 
tention, and consequently raise expectation, if this be not 
fully observed, they will occasion disappointment and dis¬ 
gust. 

But the most common, and the principal use of pauses, is 
to mark the divisions of the sense, and, at the same time, to 
permit the speaker to draw his breath ; and the just and 
graceful management of such pauses, is one of the most 
delicate and difficult articles in delivery. A proper com¬ 
mand of the breath is peculiarly requisite to be acquired. 
To obtain this, every speaker should he very careful to pro¬ 
vide a full supply of breath for what he is to utter. It is a 


In all prepared discourses, what would be a very useful practice; blit 
what caution must, at the same time, be given 'l When only do they be¬ 
come striking; and if they recur too frequently, what will be their effect 1 
What next demand attention ; and of what two kinds are they 1 When 
is an emphatical pause made ; what effect have such pauses; and what 
follows 'l But what is the most common and principal use of pauses ; and 
of the graceful management of them, what is remarked 1 What is here 
requisite; and to obtain this, what is necessary % To suppose what is a 
great mistake; and when may it easily be gathered 1 



Lect. 30.] OR DELIVERY. 243 

great mistake to suppose, that the breath must he drawn only 
at the end of a period, when the voice ia about to fall. It 
may easily be gathered at the intervals of a sentence, where 
the voice suffers only a momentary suspension; and hence 
a sufficient supply may be obtained for carrying on the 
largest period, without improper interruptions. 

Pauses in public discourse, must be founded upon the 
manner in which we express ourselves in common, sensible 
conversation, and not upon the stiff artificial manner which 
we acquire from perusing books, according to the common 
punctuation Sometimes it is only a slight and simple sus¬ 
pension of the voice which is proper ; sometimes a degree 
of cadence is requisite; and sometimes that peculiar tone 
and cadence, which marks the conclusion of the sentence. 
In all these cases, a speaker is to regulate himself by attend¬ 
ing to the manner in which nature teaches him to speak, 
when engaged in real and earnest discourse with others. 

In reading or reciting verses, there is a difficulty in 
making the pauses with propriety. There are two kinds of 
pauses that belong to the music of verse; one at the 
end of the line, and the other in the middle of it. Rhyme 
always renders the former sensible, and compels an ob¬ 
servance of it in the pronunciation. In blank verse it is less 
perceivable; and when there is no suspension in the sense, 
it has been doubted whether in reading it with propriety, 
any regard should be paid to the close of a line. On the 
stage, indeed, where the appearance of speaking in verse 
should be avoided, the close of such lines as make no pause 
in the sense, should not be rendered perceptible to the ear. 
On other occasions, it were better, for the sake of melody, to 
read'blank verse in such a manner as to make each line 
sensibly distinct. In attempting this, however, every appear¬ 
ance of singsong and tone must be cautiously avoided. The 
close of the line where there is no pause in the meaning, 
should be marked by such a slight suspension of sound 
only, as may distinguish the passage from one line to 
another, without injuring the sense. 


Upon what manner must pauses in public discourses he formed; and 
how is this illustrated ? In all these cases, how is the speaker to regulate 
himself I In reading poetry, what two pauses are to be observed; and of 
rhyme and blank verse, what is relatively remarked I On the stage what 
course should be pursued ; but on other occasions, how should blank verse 
be read I In attempting this, what must be avoided; and what remark 
follows 7 



244 PRONUNCIATION, [Lect. 30. 

The pause in the middle of the line falls after the 4th, 
5th, 6th, or 7th, syllables, and no other. When it happens 
that this pause coincides with the slightest division in the 
sense, the line can be read with ease; as in the first two 
verses of Pope’s Messiah: 

Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song; 

To heavenly themes, sublimer strains belong. 

But if it happen that words, which have such an intimate 
connection as not to admit of even a momentary separation, 
be divided from each other by this pause in the middle of the 
verse, we then perceive a conflict between the sense and the 
soun(J, which renders it difficult to read such lines with 
grace and harmony. In such cases, it is always better to 
sacrifice sound to sense. Thus, for instance, in the follow¬ 
ing line of Milton: 

--- What in me is dark 

Illume ; what is low, raise and support. 

The sense evidently dictates the pause after ‘ illume, 
which ought to be observed; though if the melody only 
were to be regarded, ‘ illume’ should be connected with 
what follows, and no pause be made till after the 4th or 6th 
syllable. 

We proceed next to treat of tones in pronunciation, which 
are different both from emphases and pauses; consisting in the 
modulation of the voice, the notes or variations of sound 
which are employed in public speaking. The most material 
instruction which can be given on this subject is, to form the 
tones of public speaking upon the tones of sensible and an¬ 
imated conversation. Every one who is engaged in speak¬ 
ing on a subject which interests him really, has an eloquent 
or persuasive tone and manner. But when a speaker de¬ 
parts from his natural tone of expression, he is sure to render 
his discourse frigid and unpersuasive. Nothing is more 
absurd than to suppose, that as soon as a speaker ascends 
the pulpit, or rises in a public assembly, he is immediately 


The pause in the middle of the line falls after what syllables; when 
can the line be read with ease; and what instance is given 1 But when do 
we perceive a conflict between the sense and the sound; then, what course 
should we pursue; and what illustration follows ? What is remarked of 
this passage'? To what do we next proceed ; and of what do they con¬ 
sist 1 What is the most material instruction that can be given on this 
subject; and what remark follows 1 When a speaker departs from his 
natural tone of expression, what will be the consequence; and what is very 
absurd 1 Of this what is observed; and what remarks follow 'l 




Lect. 30.] OR DELIVERY. 245 

to lay aside the voice with which he expresses himself in 
private, and to assume a new, studied tone, and a cadence 
altogether different from his natural manner. This has 
vitiated all delivery, and has given rise to cant and tedious 
monotony. Let every public speaker guard against this 
error. Whether he speak in private, or in a great assem¬ 
bly, let him not forget that he still speaks. Let him take 
nature for his guide, and she will teach him to express his 
sentiments and feelings in such a manner, as to make the 
most forcible and pleasing impression upon the minds of his 
hearers. 

It now remains for us to treat of gesture, or what is called 
action, in public discourse. The best rule is, to recommend 
attention to the looks and gestures, in which earnestness, 
indignation, compassion, or any other emotion, discovers 
itself to most advantage in the common intercourse of men; 
and let these be the model for imitation. A public speaker 
must, however, adopt that manner which is most natural to 
himself. His motions and gestures ought all to exhibit that 
kind of expression which nature has dictated to him; and 
unless this be the case, no study can prevent their appearing 
stiff and ungraceful. But though nature be the basis on 
which every grace in gesture and action must he founded, 
yet the ornamental improvements which art can supply must 
not he neglected. The study of action consists chiefly in 
guarding against awkward and disagreeable emotions, and 
in learning to perform such as are natural to the speaker, in 
the most graceful manner. Numerous are the rules which 
writers have laid down for the attainment of a proper ges¬ 
ticulation. But it is to be feared, that written instructions on 
this subject can be of little service. To become useful, 
they must be well exemplified. A few of the simplest pre¬ 
cepts, however, may be attended to with advantage. Thus, 
every speaker should study to preserve as much dignity as 
possible in the whole attitude of his body. He should 
generally prefer an erect posture; his position should be 
firm, so as to have the fullest and freest command of all his 


Of what does it now remain for us to treat; and here what is the best 
rule 1 What manner, however, must a public speaker adopt; and of his 
gesture, what is observed'? But though nature be the basis, yet what must 
not be neglected ; and in what does the study of action consist 1 Of rules, 
what remarks follow 'l Of the simple precepts to be attended to, what 
ones are mentioned 'l Of the countenance, what is remarked 5 and also of 
the eyes'? 


21* 



246 


PRONUNCIATION. [Lect. 30. 


motions ; if any inclination be used, it should be forward 
towards the hearers, which is a natural expression of 
earnestness. The countenance should correspond with-the 
nature of the discourse; and when no particular emotion is 
expressed, a serious and manly look is always to be preferred. 
The eyes should never be fixed entirely on any one object, 
but move easily round the audience. In the motions made 
with the hands, consists the principal part of gesture in 
speaking. It is natural that the right hand be more fre¬ 
quently employed than the left. Warm emotions require 
the exercise of them both together. But whether a speaker 
gesticulates with one or both hands, all his motions should 
be easy and unrestrained. Perpendicular movements in a 
straight line up and down, which Shakspeare calls ‘Sawing 
the air with the hand,’ are to be particularly avoided. 
Oblique motions are the most pleasing and graceful. For 
sudden, and rapid motions are seldom good. Earnestness 
can be fully expressed without their assistance. 

We cannot conclude our observations on this subject, 
without earnestly admonishing every speaker to guard 
against all affectation, which is the destruction of good de¬ 
livery. Let his manner, whatever it may be, be his own. 
Whatever is native, though attended by several defects, is 
likely to please ; because it shows us the man ; and because 
it has the appearance of proceeding from the heart. To 
attain a delivery extremely correct and graceful, is what few 
can expect; as so many natural talents must concur in its 
formation. But to acquire a forcible and persuasive man¬ 
ner, is within the power of the generality of mankind. 
They must only unlearn false and corrupt habits ; they 
must follow nature; and they will speak in public as they 
do in private, when they speak in earnest, and from the 
heart. 

What is observed of the motion of the hands 1 Of perpendicular mo¬ 
tions, what is remarked ; and what follows 'l Against what is every speaker 
admonished to guard 'l What should his manner be; and why'? What 
can few expect; and why 1 But what is within the nower of all; and to 
attain it what must they do'? 


ANALYSIS. 


Delivery. 

1. Audibleness of voice. 

2. Distinctness of articulation. 

3. Propriety of pronunciation. 

4. Requisites for speaking. 


A. Emphasis. 


C. Tones. 

D. Gestures. 


B. Pauses. 

a. Emphatical pause. 

b. Caesural pause. 


a. Affectation to be avoided. 






LECTURE XXXI. 

MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. 


Having treated fully of the different kinds of public 
speaking, of the composition, and of the delivery of a dis¬ 
course; before we finish this subject, it maybe useful to 
suggest some things concerning the proper means of im¬ 
provement in the art of public speaking, and the most ne¬ 
cessary studies for that purpose. 

To be an eloquent speaker, in the proper sense of the 
word, is far from being either a common or an easy attain¬ 
ment. To compose a florid harangue on some popular 
topic, and to deliver it so as to amuse an audience, it is true, 
is not a very difficult task. But though some praise be due 
to this, yet the idea which we have given of eloquence is 
much higher. It is a great exertion of the human powers. 
It is the art of being persuasive and commanding—the art, 
not of pleasing the fancy merely, but of speaking both to the 
understanding and to the heart—of interesting the hearers 
in such a degree, as to seize and carry them along with us ; 
and to leave them with a deep and strong impression of what 
we have said. Many talents, both natural and acquired, 
must concur for carrying this to perfection. A strong, lively, 
and warm imagination—quick sensibility of heart, joined 
with solid judgment, good sense, and presence of mind ; all 
improved by long attention to style and composition; and 
supported also by the exterior, yet important qualifications 
of a graceful manner, a good presence, and a full and 
tuneable voice. There is little reason to wonder, therefore, 
that an accomplished orator is so rarely to be found. But 
we should not, however, despair ; as between mediocrity and 
perfection, there is a very wide interval. There are many 
intermediate spaces, which may be filled up with honor; 


Having treated fully of the different kinds of public speaking, to sug¬ 
gest somethings towards what may be useful 1 To be an eloquent speaker, 
in the proper sense of the word, is far from being what; and what remark 
follows I But though some praise be due to this, yet what is the idea we 
have given of eloquence 'l For carrying this to perfection, what talents 
must combine I About what, therefore, is there little reason to wonder; 
but why should we not despair I 



248 MEANS OF IMPROVING [Lect. 31 

and the more rare and difficult that complete perfection is, 
the greater is the honor of approaching to it, though we do 
not fully attain it. 

After these preliminary observations, we proceed to treat 
of the means to he used for improving in eloquence. To 
those who are anxious to excel in this subject, we must ob¬ 
serve, in the first place, that nothing is more necessary than 
to cultivate habits of the several virtues, and to refine and 
improve all their moral feelings. A true orator must pos¬ 
sess generous sentiments, and a mind turned towards the 
admiration of all those great and high objects, which man¬ 
kind are, by nature, prone to venerate. Connected with the 
manly virtues, he should have a strong and tender sensibility 
to all the injuries, distresses, and sorrows, of his fellow- 
creatures ; a heart that can easily relent; that can enter into 
the circumstances of others, and can make their case his own. 

Next to moral qualifications, what, in the second place, is 
most necessary to an orator, is a fund of knowledge. There is 
no art by which eloquence can be taught, in any sphere, without 
a sufficient acquaintance with what belongs to that sphere. 
Attention to the ornaments of style, can only assist the orator 
in setting off to advantage the stock of materials which he pos¬ 
sesses ; but the materials themselves must be derived from 
other sources than from rhetoric. The pleader must make 
himself completely acquainted with the law ; he must possess 
all that learning and experience which can be useful in his 
profession, for supporting a cause, or convincing a judge. 
The preacher must apply himself closely to the study of 
divinity, of practical religion, of morals, and of human 
nature; that he may be rich in all the subjects both of in¬ 
struction and of persuasion. He who wishes to excel as a 
member of the supreme council of the nation, or of any 
public assembly, should be minutely acquainted with the 
business which belongs to such assembly, and should attend 
with accuracy to all the facts which may be the subject of 
question or deliberation. 

Besides the knowledge that is more particularly connected 


After these preliminary observations, of what do we proceed to treat.*, 
and what is the first given '] What must a true orator possess; and con¬ 
nected to the manly virtues, what should he have 1 What, in the second 
place, is necessary; and why 1 How is this remark illustrated from the 
case of the pleader, the preacher, or any other public speaker % Besides 
particular knowledge, with what should a public speaker make himself 
acquainted 1 




Lect. 31.] IN ELOQUENCE. 249 

with his profession, a public speaker should make himself 
acquainted with the general circle of polite literature. Poetry 
he will find useful for the embellishment of style, for afford¬ 
ing lively images, or pleasing illusions. History may be 
still more advantageous ; since the knowledge of facts, of 
eminent characters, and of the course of human affairs, must 
find place on many occasions. A deficiency of knowledge, 
even in subjects not immediately connected with his pro¬ 
fession, will expose a public speaker to many disadvantages, 
and give his rivals, who are better qualified, a decided supe¬ 
riority. 

In the third place, to every one who wishes to excel in 
public speaking, a habit of application and industry cannot 
be too much recommended. This is inseparably connected 
with the attainment of every species of excellence. No one 
can ever become a distinguished pleader, or preacher, or 
speaker in any assembly, without previous labor and appli 
cation. Industry, indeed, is not only necessary to every 
valuable acquisition, but it is designed by Providence as the 
seasoning of every pleasure, without which life would become 
flat and insipid. No enemy is so destructive both to honor¬ 
able attainments, and to the real and animated enjoyment of 
life, as that relaxed state of mind which proceeds from indo¬ 
lence and dissipation. He who is destined to excel in any 
art, will be distinguished by an enthusiasm for that art; 
which firing his mind with the object in view, will dispose 
him to endure every necessary degree of industry and per¬ 
severance. This was the characteristic of the great men of 
antiquity; and it must distinguish the moderns who would 
imitate their bright examples. By those who are studying 
oratory, this honorable enthusiasm should be cultivated with 
the most lively attention. If it be wanting to youth, manhood 
will flag exceedingly. 

In the fourth place, attention to the best models will con¬ 
tribute greatly towards improvement in the arts of speaking 
or writing. Every one, indeed, should endeavor to have 


For what will he find poetry useful; and why may history be still more 
advantageous ; and what remark follows 7 In the third place, a habit of 
what is recommended ; and of this what is remarked 7 Of industry, what 
is farther observed; and what remark follows 7 By what will he who is 
destined to excel in any art, be distinguished ; and what will be its effect 7 
Of whom was this the characteristic; whom must it distinguish ; and what 
remarks follow 7 To what, in the fourth place, must attention be given 7 
Wliat should every one endeavor to have; and why 7 



250 MEANS OF IMPROVING [Lect. 31. 

something that is his own, that is peculiar to himself, and 
that distinguishes his composition and style. Genius is 
certainly depressed, and its poverty betrayed, by a slavish 
imitation. But yet, there is no genius so original, but may 
receive improvement from proper examples, in style, compo¬ 
sition, and delivery. They always afford some new ideas, 
and contribute to enlarge and correct our own. They 
accelerate the current of thought, and excite the ardor of 
emulation. 

In imitating the style of any favorite author, a material 
distinction should be observed between written and spoken 
language. These are, in reality, two different modes of 
communicating ideas. In books, we expect correctness, 
precision, all redundancies pruned, all repetitions avoided, 
and language completely polished. Speaking allows a 
more easy copious style, and less confined by rule ; repeti¬ 
tions may often be requisite, parenthesis may sometimes be 
ornamental; the same thought must often be exhibited in 
different points of view ; since the hearers can catch it only 
from the mouth of the speaker, and have not the opportunity, 
as in reading, of turning back again, and of contemplating 
what they do not entifiy comprehend. Hence the style of 
some good authors would seem stiff, affected, and even ob¬ 
scure, if transferred into a popular oration. How unnatural, 
for instance, would Lord Shaftesbury’s sentences sound in 
the mouth of a public speaker. Some kinds of public dis¬ 
course, indeed, such as that of the pulpit, where a more 
accurate preparation and a more studied style are allowable, 
would admit such a manner better than others, which are 
expected to approach nearer to extemporaneous speaking. 
But yet there is, generally, so great a difference between 
speaking, and a composition intended only to be read, as 
should caution us against a close and improper imitation. 

The manner of writing of some authors, approaches 
nearer to the style of speaking than others; and they can, 
therefore, be imitated with more propriety. In our own 


Yet from what may any genius, however original, receive improvement; 
and what is their effect 1 In imitating the style of any favorite author, 
between what should a distinction be observed ; and how is this distinction 
fully illustrated 'l Hence, of the style of some good authors, what is ob¬ 
served ; and what instance is mentioned 1 In what kinds of public dis¬ 
course is such a manner admissible; and why I Yet why should we avoid 
a close and improper imitation 1 Of the manner of writing of some authors, 
what is remarked; and who are of this description 'l 



Lect. 31.] IN ELOQUENCE. 2ul 

language, Swift and Bolingbroke are of this description/ 
The former, though correct, preserves the easy and natural 
manner of an unaffected speaker ; and this is an excellence by 
which he is peculiarly distinguished. The style of the lat¬ 
ter is more splendid; but still it is the style of speaking, or 
rather of declamation. Bolingbroke, indeed, may be studied 
with singular advantage, by those who are desirous of 
attaining the natural elegance and the graces of composition. 

In the fifth place, besides attention to the best models, fre¬ 
quent exercise both in composing and speaking must be 
recommended as a necessary means of improvement. That 
kind of composition is, undoubtedly, most useful, which is 
connected with the profession, or sort of public speaking, to 
which persons devote themselves. This they should ever 
keep in view, and be gradually habituating themselves to it. 
At the same time, they should be cautious not to allow them¬ 
selves to compose negligently on any occasion. He who 
wishes to write, or to speak correctly, should, in the most 
trifling kind of composition—in writing a letter, or even in 
common conversation, endeavor to express himself with 
propriety. By this we do not mean that he is never to write, or 
to speak, but in studied and artificial language. This would 
introduce a stiffness and affectation, infinitely worse than 
the greatest negligence. But we must observe, that there 
is in every thing a proper and becoming manner ; and, on 
the contrary, there is also an awkward performance of the 
same thing. That manner which is becoming, is often the 
most light, and apparently the most careless ; but taste and 
attention are requisite to possess the just idea of it. That 
idea, when once acquired, should be kept constantly in 
view, and upon it should be formed whatever we write or 
speak. 

Exercises of speaking have always been recommended to 
students in elocution; and, when under proper regulation, 
must, undoubtedly, be of the greatest use. Those public 

Of them, respectively, what is farther observed; and by whom may 
Bolingbroke he studied with singular advantage 1 In the fifth place, what 
must be recommended; and what kind of composition is most useful % Of 
this what is remarked; and at the same time, about what should they be 
cautious 1 What should he who wishes to write or to speak correctly do; 
by this, what is not meant; and why 'l But what must we observe; and 
of that manner which is becoming, what is remarked ? What have always 
been recommended to students of elocution; and what is said of them 1 
What institutions are not only of a useless, but of an injurious nature; 
and what are they calculated to become 'l 



252 MEANS OF IMPROVING [Lect. 31, 

and pernicious societies, in which numbers are brought 
together, who are frequently of low stations and occupations, 
who are connected by no common bond of union, except a 
ridiculous rage for public speaking, and have no other object 
in view, than to exhibit their supposed talents, are institutions 
not only of a useless, but of an injurious nature. They are 
calculated to become seminaries of licentiousness, petulance, 
and faction. Even the allowable meetings, into which stu¬ 
dents of oratory may form themselves, must be under proper 
direction, in order to be rendered useful. If the subjects of 
debate be improperly chosen; if they support extravagant 
and indecent topics ; if they indulge themselves in loose and 
flimsy declamation; or accustom themselves, without pre 
paration, to speak pertly on all subjects, they will unavoid 
ably acquire a very faulty and vicious taste in speaking. It 
should, therefore, be recommended to all those who are 
members of such societies, to attend to the choice of their 
subjects ; to be careful that these be useful and manly, 
either connected with the course of their studies, or related 
to morals and taste, to action and life. They should be 
temperate in the practice of speaking ; not to speak too fre¬ 
quently, nor on subjects of which they are ignorant; but 
only when they have laid up proper materials for a discourse, 
and have previously considered and digested the subject. In 
speaking, they should be cautious always to keep good sense 
and persuasion in view, rather than a show of eloquence. 
By these means, they will adopt the best method of forming 
themselves gradually to a manly, correct, and persuasive 
elocution. 

It may now be asked, of what use the study of critical and 
rhetorical writers will be, for the improvement of those who 
wish to excel in eloquence. They ought certainly not to be 
neglected ; and yet, perhaps, very much cannot be expected 
from them. It is, however, from the original ancient writers 
that the greatest advantage can be derived ; and every one, 
whose profession calls him to speak in public, should be 


Under what circumstances will students of oratory, even in allowable 
meetings, acquire a vicious taste in speaking 1 What should, therefore, 
be recommended to all the members of such societies 1 Of their speaking 
what is remarked ; and by this what is meant 1 In speaking what should 
they do ; and why 1 What question may now be. asked ; and what re¬ 
mark follows % Whence can the greatest advantage be derived; and who 
should be acquainted with there 1 



Lect. 31.] IN ELOaUENCE. 253 

acquainted with them. In all the rhetorical writers among 
the ancients, there is, indeed, one defect; they are too sys¬ 
tematical, they endeavor to perform too much ; they aim at 
reducing rhetoric to a perfect art, which may supply in¬ 
vention with materials on every subject; so that one would 
suppose they expected to make an orator hy rule, in the 
same manner as a mechanic would learn his business. But, 
in reality, all that can be done, is to assist and enlighten 
taste, and to point out to genius, the path in which it ought 
to tread. 

Aristotle seems to have been the first who took rhetoric 
out of the hands of the sophists, and founded it on reason 
and solid sense. Some of the profoundest things that have 
been written on the passions and manners of men, are to he 
found in his Treatise on Rhetoric ; though in this ; as in all 
his writings, his great conciseness often renders him obscure. 
The Greek rhetoricians who succeeded him, most of whose 
writings are now lost, improved on the foundation which he 
had laid. The writings of two of them still remain—De¬ 
metrius Phalereus, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus, both 
of whom have written on the construction of sentences, and 
deserve to be perused ; especially Dionysius, who is a very 
accurate and judicious critic. 

To recommend the rhetorical writings of Cicero, would 
be superfluous. Whatever, on the subject of eloquence, 
comes from so great an orator, must be worthy of attention. 
His most considerable work on this subject is that of De 
Oratore, in three books. None of his writings are more 
highly finished than this treatise. The dialogue is politely 
conducted, the characters are well supported, and the 
management of the whole is beautiful and pleasing. It is, 
it is true, full of digressions, and his rules and observations 
may be thought, sometimes, too vague and general. Useful 
things, however, may be learned from it; and it is no small 
advantage to be made acquainted with Cicero’s own idea of 
eloquence. The Orator ad M. Brutum , is also a valuable 
treatise; and, indeed, throughout all Cicero’s rhetorical 


In all of them, what defect is there; from which one would suppose 
that they expected what I But what, in reality, is all that can be done I 
Aristotle is the first that did what; and of his Treatise on Rhetoric, what 
is remarked I Of the Greek rhetoricians who succeeded him, what is ob¬ 
served ; the writings of what two still remain; and what is observed of 
them 1 What is said of the rhetorical writings of Cicero ; and of his most 
considerable work on this subject, what is remarked I 

22 



254 MEANS, &c. [Lect. 31. 

works, there are seen those elevated and sublime ideas of 
eloquence, which are well calculated to form a just taste, 
and to inspire that enthusiasm for the art, which is highly 
conducive to the attainment of excellence. 

But of all the ancient writers on the subject of oratory, the 
most instructive and most useful is Quintilian. Few books 
abound more with good sense, and discover a greater degree 
of just and accurate taste, than his Institutions. Almost all 
the principles of good criticism are to be found in them. He 
has digested into excellent order all the ancient ideas con¬ 
cerning rhetoric; and is, at the same time, himself an 
eloquent writer. Though some parts of his work contain 
too much of the technical and artificial system then in vogue, 
yet seldom has any person, of more sound and distinct judg¬ 
ment than Quintilian, applied himself to the study of the art 
of oratory. 


Fat of all the ancient writers on oratory, who is the most instructive ? 
Whit is observed of his Institutions ? What objection may be offered to 
son?* parts of his work; yet of him, what remark follows? 


ANALYSIS. 


H Preliminary observations. 

> Requisites for being eloquent. 

A. , Virtuous habits. 

B. A fund of knowledge. 

a. Familiarity with general 
literature requisite. 

.3. Industry and application. 

0. Attention to the best models. 


a. Written and spoken lan¬ 
guage distinguished. 

E. Frequent exercise in compo¬ 

sition. 

a. Exercises of speaking. 

F. The study of critical writers 

requisite. 

a. Aristotle—Cicero. 

b. Quintilian. 






LECTURE XXXII. 

COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE ANCIENTS 
AND THE MODERNS. 

As we have now finished that part of these lectures which 
respected oratory, or public speaking, it remains that we en¬ 
ter on the consideration of the most distinguished kinds of 
composition, both in prose and verse, and point out the prin¬ 
ciples of criticism relating to them. In this we shall study 
to avoid unnecessary prolixity; though, at the same time, 
we shall hope to omit nothing that is very material under 
the several heads. 

Before we proceed farther, however, it may be proper to 
make some observations on the comparative merit of the 
ancients and the moderns ; in order that we may be able to 
ascertain, rationally, upon what foundation that deference 
rests, which has so generally been paid to the ancients. 
These observations are the more necessary, as this subject 
has given rise to no small controversy in the republic of let¬ 
ters ; and they may, with propriety, be introduced now, as 
they will serve to throw light on some things, afterwards to 
be said, concerning different kinds of composition. 

It is a remarkable phenomenon, that writers and artists, 
most distinguished for their parts and genius, have generally 
appeared in considerable rpimbers at a time. Some ages 
have been remarkably barren in them ; while, at other pe¬ 
riods, nature seems to have exerted herself with a more than 
ordinary effort, and to have poured them forth with a pro¬ 
fuse fertility. Various reasons have been assigned for this. 
Some of the moral causes lie obvious ; such as favorable cir¬ 
cumstances of government and manners; encouragement 
from great men ; and emulation excited among the men of 
genius. But as these have been thought inadequate to the 
whole effect, physical causes have been also assigned; such 


Having finished that part of these lectures which respected oratory, 
what remains to be done; and of this what remark fellows'? Before we 
proceed farther, however, what may be proper; and why 1 Why are these 
observations the moTe necessary ; and why may they be introduced now 1 
What is a remarkable phenomenon; and what remark follows ? What 
moral, and what physical causes, have been assigned for this 1 



256 THE ANCIENTS AND [Lect. 32. 

as the influence of the air, the'climate, and other natural 
causes. But whatever the cause may be, the fact is certain, 
that particular period's or ages of the world, have been much 
more distinguished than others, for the extraordinary pro 
ductions of genius. 

Learned men have distinguished four of these happy ages. 
The first is the Grecian age, which commenced near the 
time of the Peloponnesian war, and extended till the time of 
Alexander the Great; within which period we have, as the 
most distinguished, Herodotus,* Thucydides, Xenophon, 
Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, iEschines, Iso¬ 
crates, Homer,* Hesiod,* Pindar, iEschylus, Euripides, 
Sophocles, Aristophanes, Menander, Theocritus, Lysippus, 
and Phidias. The second, is the Roman age, included 
nearly within the days of Julius Caesar a nd Augustus ; afford¬ 
ing us Catullus, Lucretius, Terence, Virgil, Horace, Ti¬ 
bullus, Ovid, Lucan, Hortentius, Caesar, Cicero, Livy, 
Sallust, Tacitus, and Varro. The third age, is that of the 
restoration of learning, under the Popes Julius II. and Leo 
X.; when flourished Dante,* Petrarch,* Ariosto, Tasso, 
Sannazarius, Vida, Machiavel, Guicciardini, Davila, Eras¬ 
mus, Paul Jovius, Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Titian. 
The fourth commenced with the age of Louis XIV. and 
Queen Anne, and continues to the present time. In it have 
flourished, in France, Corneille, Racine, De Retz, Moliere, 
Boileau, Fontaine, Baptiste, Rousseau, Bossuet, Fenelon, 
Bourdaloue, Pascall, Malebranche, Massillon, Bayle, and 
Fontenelle; in England, Shakspeare, Spenser, Dryden, 
Pope, Addison, Prior, Swift, Parnell, Arbuthnot, Congreve, 
Otway, Young, Howe, Atterbury, Shaftesbury, Boling- 
broke, Tillotson, Temple, Boyle, Locke, Newton, Clark ; 
together with Johnson, Burke, and all their brilliant cotem¬ 
poraries, and successors, down to the present day. 

When we speak comparatively of the ancients and the 
moderns, we generally mean by the ancients, such as lived 

* These writers flourished rather before the period with which their 
names are connected. 


But whatever the cause may be, what fact is certain 1 How many of 
these .happy ages have been distinguished ; of the first what is remarked ; 
and in it who flourished 1 What is the second; within whose days is it 
included; and who does it afford 7 Under whom was the third age; and 
m it who flourished % When did the fourth commence ; of it what is ob¬ 
served ; and in it who flourished 'l When we speak comparatively of the 
ancients and the moderns, by them, respectively, what do we mean ? 




Lect. 32.] THE MODERNS COMPARED. 267 

in the first two of these periods ; and by the moderns, those 
who flourished in the two last. Any comparison between 
these two classes of writers, must necessarily he vague and 
loose, as they comprehend so many, and such different kinds 
and degrees of genius. The comparison, however, is 
generally made to turn upon two or three of the most dis¬ 
tinguished in each class. In France, this dispute was car¬ 
ried on with much warmth, between Boileau and Madame 
Dacier for the ancients, and Perrault and La Motte for the 
moderns. Even at this time, men of letters are divided on 
the subject; and it is somewhat difficult to discern, upon 
what grounds the controversy is to be determined. 

Should any one, at this day, attempt to decry the ancient 
classics, or pretend to have discovered that Homer and 
Virgil are inferior poets, and that Demosthenes and Cicero 
are not great orators, we unhesitatingly tell him that he is 
too late in his discovery. Their reputation is established 
upon a'foundation too solid to be now shaken by any argu¬ 
ment whatever ; for it is established upon the universal 
taste of mankind, proved and tried throughout the succession 
of so many ages. At the same time, it is obvious that im¬ 
perfections may he traced in their writings; for no human 
work is perfect. But to attempt to discredit their works in 
general, or to prove that the reputation which they have 
gained is, on the whole, unjust, can only belong to peevish¬ 
ness or prejudice. The approbation of the public, for so 
many centuries, establishes a verdict in their favor, from 
which there is no appeal. 

In matters of mere reasoning, the world may be long in 
an error; and may be convinced of the error by stronger 
reasonings when produced. Positions that depend upon 
science, upon knowledge, and matters of fact, may be over¬ 
turned according as science and knowledge are enlarged, 
and new matters of fact are brought to light. For this rea¬ 
son, a system of philosophy receives no sufficient sanction 


Of any comparison between these two classes of Writers, what is re¬ 
marked ; and why 'l On whom has the comparison been generally made 
to turn ; by whom has the dispute been carried on ; and what remark fol¬ 
lows 'l When may we unhesitatingly tell that he has come too late with 
his discovery; and of their reputation what is remarked 'l At the same 
time, what is obvious; but what can only belong to peevishness and preju¬ 
dice ; and what remark follows'? Of matters of mere reasoning, what is 
observed • and how is this illustrated 'l 


22 * 



258 THE ANCIENTS AND [Lect. 32. 

for its antiquity or long standing. But in objects of taste 
there is no such fallibility ; as they depend not on knowledge 
and science, but upon sentiment and feeling. It is in vain 
to think of undeceiving mankind, with respect to errors com* 
mitted here, as in philosophy ; for the universal feeling of 
mankind is the natural feeling, and, therefore, must be right. 
Homer and Virgil, consequently, must continue to occupy 
the same ground that they have occupied so long. 

It is in vain also to alledge, that the reputation of the ancient 
poets, and orators, is owing to authority, to pedantry, and 
to the prejudices of education, transmitted from age to age. 
These, it is true, are the authors put into our hands at 
schools and colleges, and by that means a strong preposses¬ 
sion is formed in their favor ; but then it must be recollected, 
that it was through the high fame which they had acquired 
among their cotemporaries, that they gained the possession 
of colleges and schools. The Greek and Latin were not 
always dead languages. There was a time when Homer, 
and Virgil, and Horace, were viewed in the same light as 
we now view Dryden, and Pope, and Addison. It is not to 
commentators and universities that the classics are indebted 
for their fame. They became classics and school-books, in 
consequence of the high admiration which was paid them 
by the best judges in their own country and nation. Accord¬ 
ingly we find, that as early as the days of Juvenal, Virgil 
and Horace had become standard books in the education of 
youth. 

We must guard, however, against a blind and implicit 
veneration for the ancients in every thing. The general 
principle thus opened, must go far in instituting a fair com¬ 
parison between them and the moderns. Whatever supe¬ 
riority the ancients may have had in point of genius, yet in 
all arts, where the natural progress of knowledge has had 
room to produce any considerable effects, the moderns can¬ 
not but have some advantage. Hence, in natural philosophy, 
astronomy, chemistry, and other sciences that depend on an 

But why, in objects of taste, is there no such fallibility ; and of Homer 
and Virgil what is, consequently, remarked 1 What is it in vain also to 
alledge ; of these what is observed ; and how did they gain possession of 
colleges and schools 1 As the Greek and Latin were not always dead lan¬ 
guages, what follows 'l How did they become classics and school books ; 
and, accordingly, what do we find 1 Against what must we, however, 1 
guard ; and what remark follows 'l Though the ancients were superior in 
point of genius, jret, in what have the moderns the advantagej and a s 
instances, what sciences are mentioned 1 



Lect. 32.] THE MODERNS COMPARED. 259 

extensive knowledge and observation of facts, modern phi¬ 
losophers have an unquestionable superiority over the 
ancients. Perhaps, too, in precise reasoning, the philoso¬ 
phers of the modern ages have the advantage over those of 
ancient times ; as a more extensive literary intercourse, has 
contributed to sharpen the faculties of men. Perhaps, also, the 
moderns have the superiority in history; as political know¬ 
ledge is certainly more perfect now, than it was in the days 
of Greece and Rome—arising from the extension of com¬ 
merce, the discovery of different countries, the superior 
facility of intercourse, and the multiplicity of events and 
revolutions which have taken place in the world. In the 
more complex kinds of poetry, likewise, some advantages 
have been gained, in point of regularity and accuracy. In 
dramatic performances, having the advantage of the ancient 
models, we have made very considerable improvements. 
The variety of the characters is greater ; more skill has 
been displayed in the conduct of the plot; and a happier 
attention given to probability and decorum. Among the 
ancients we find higher conceptions, greater simplicity, and 
more' original fancy. Among the moderns, sometimes, 
more art and correctness, but genius less forcible and striking. 
But, though this be, in general, a mark of distinction between 
the ancients and the moderns, yet, it must be understood 
with some exceptions; for in point of poetical fire and 
original genius, Milton and Shakspeare are inferior to no 
poets in any age. 

It is proper to observe, that among the ancients there were 
some circumstances that were very favorable to the exertions 
of genius. Learning was a much more rare and singular 
attainment in the early ages than it is at present. It was 
not to schools and universities that the persons applied, wdio 
sought to distinguish themselves. They had not this easy 
recourse. They travelled for their improvement into distant 
countries, to Egypt, and to the East. They inquired after 
all the monuments of learning there. They conversed with 


In precise reasoning, and in history, why have the moderns a superiority 
over the ancients 7 In what kinds of poetry have the moderns gained some 
advantages ; and how is this remark illustrated from dramatic performances 7 
Among the ancients and the moderns, respectively, what do we find 7 But 
though this be a general mark of distinction, yet, what exceptions are men¬ 
tioned 7 Among the ancients, what circumstances are mentioned as having 
been favorable to the exertions of genius 7 How did they obtain their 
learning ; and of their return to their own country, what is remarked 7 



260 THE ANCIENTS AND [Lect. 32. 

priests, philosophers, poets, and all who had acquired any 
distinguished fame.' They returned to their own country 
full of the discoveries which they had made, and tired by 
the new and uncommon objects which they had seen. Their 
knowledge and improvements cost them more labor, raised 
in them more enthusiasm, and were attended with higher 
rewards and honors, than in modern days. Fewer had the 
means and opportunities of distinguishing themselves ; but 
such as did distinguish themselves, were sure of acquiring 
that fame, and even veneration, which is, of all rewards, the 
greatest incentive to genius. Herodotus read his history to 
all Greece, assembled at the Olympic games, and was pub¬ 
licly crowned. In the Peloponnesian war, when the Athenian 
army was defeated in Sicily, and the prisoners were ordered 
to be put to death, such of them as could repeat any verses 
of Euripides were saved, from honor to that poet, who was 
a citizen of Athens. These were testimonies of public, 
regard, far beyond what any modern nation confers upon 
genius. 

In modern times, good writing is considered as an attain 
ment neither so difficult, nor so high and meritorious. 

Scribirrms indocti, doctique, Poemata passim. 

Now every desp’rate blockhead dares to write; 

Verse is the trade of ev’ry living wight. Francis. 

We write much more supinely, and at our ease, than the 
ancients did. To excel has become a much less considerable 
object. Less effort, less exertion, is required, because our 
assistances are much more numerous than theirs were. 
Printing has rendered all books common, and easy to be 
had. Education for any of the learned professions, can be 
carried on without much trouble. Hence a mediocrity of 
genius prevails. To rise beyond this, and to surpass the 
crowd, is the happy pre-eminence of but a few. The numer¬ 
ous assistances which we enjoy for all kinds of composition. 


Of their knowledge and improvements, what is farther observed; and 
though fewer had the means of distinguishing themselves, yet what is said 
of those that did 1 In the case of Herodotus, how is this remark illus¬ 
trated ; what other instance of illustration is given ; and what remark fol¬ 
lows 1 What is remarked of good writing in modern times ; and what 
illustration follows 1 What is farther remarked of the manner in which we 
write, in comparison with the ancients; and what reasons are assigned for 
this I Hence what prevails ; and what follows I What is the effect of 
the numerous assistances which we enjoy in all kinds of composition; and 
on this subject, what passage is given from Sir William Temple 'l 



Lect. 32.] THE MODERNS COMPARED. 261 

in the opinion of Sir William Temple, rather depresses than 
favors the exertions of native genius. 4 It is very possible,’ 
says that ingenious author, ‘that men may lose rather than, 
gain by these ; may lessen the force of their own genius, by 
forming it upon that of others; may have less knowledge of 
their own, for contenting themselves with that of those be¬ 
fore them. So a man that only translates, shall never be a 
poet; so people that trust to others charity, rather than 
their own industry, will be always poor. Who can tell,’ 
he adds, 4 whether learning may not even weaken invention, 
in a man that has great advantages from nature ! Whether 
the weight and number of so many other men’s thoughts 
and notions may not suppress his own ; as heaping on wood 
sometimes suppresses a little spark, that would otherwise 
have grown into a flame ? The strength of mind, as well 
as of body, grows more from the warmth of exercise than of 
clothes; nay, too much of this foreign heat, rather makes 
men faint, and their constitutions weaker than they would be 
without them.’ 

From whatever cause it arises, it is evident that among 
some of the ancient writers, we must look for the highest 
models in most kinds of elegant composition. For accurate 
thinking and enlarged ideas, in several parts of philosophy, 
to the moderns we oughj; chiefly to have recourse. Of cor¬ 
rect and finished writing in some works of taste, also, they 
may afford useful patterns; but for all that belongs to 
original genius, to spirited, masterly, and high execution, 
our best and most happy ideas are, generally speaking, 
drawn from the ancients. In epic poetry, for instance, we 
are still, perhaps, unrivalled ; and modern times have pro¬ 
duced no orator, who can be compared with Demosthenes 
and Cicero. In history we have no modern narration that 
is so elegant, so picturesque, and so animated, as those of 
Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Livy, Tacitus, and 
Sallust. Our dramas, with all the improvements they have 
received, are inferior in poetry and sentiment, to those of 
Sophocles and Euripides ; and we have no dialogue in 
comedy, that equals the correct, graceful, and elegant sim¬ 
plicity of Terence. We have no such love elegies as those 

From whatever cause it arises, for what must we look among some of 
the ancient writers 1 For what must we have recourse to the moderns; 
and in what also, may they afford useful patterns; but what follows 1 How 
is this last remark illustrated from epic poetry, oratory, history, the drama, 
love elegies, pastoral, and lyric poetry 'l 



262 


THE ANCIENTS, &c. [Lect. 32 


of Tibullus; no such pastorals as those of Theocritus ; and 
for lyric poetry, Horace stands quite unrivalled. By all 
such, therefore, as wish to form their taste and nourish their 
genius, the utmost attention must be devoted to the ancient 
classics of both Greece and Rome. 


J\ octurna versate manu, versate diurna. 

Read them by day, and study them by night. 


After having made these observations on the ancients and 
the moderns, it may be proper to treat critically of the more 
distinguished kinds of composition, and of the characters of 
those writers, whether ancient or modern, who have excelled 
in them. Of orations and public discourses, much has 
already been said. The remaining prose compositions may 
be divided into historical writing, philosophical writing, 
epistolary writing, and fictitious history. Historical com¬ 
position shall be first considered ; and, as it is an object ol 
dignity, we purpose to treat it at some length. 


To whom is the study of them, therefore, recommended 'l After these 
observations, what may be proper 1 Of what has much already been said • 
and what remarks follow 'l 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The ancients and the moderns 


C. The ancients not to be blind¬ 

ly venerated. 

D. Favorable circumstances ot 

ancient times. 

E. Good writing now not so 

difficult. 

F. Concluding remarks 


A. Remarkable phenomenon. 


compared. 


a. Four of these happy ages. 
B. The ancient classics not to 


be decried. 


a. Not indebted for their cele- 
britv to schools. 






LECTURE XXXIII. 


HISTORICAL WRITING. 

A.s it is the office of an orator to persuade, so it is that ol 
an historian to record truth for the instruction of mankind. 
This is the proper object and end of history; and if this ob¬ 
ject were always kept in view, it would prevent many of 
those errors into which we are liable to fall concerning this 
species of composition. As the primary end of history is to 
record truth—impartiality, fidelity, and accuracy, are the 
fundamental qualities of an historian. He must neither enter 
into faction, nor indulge in affection : but, contemplating 
past events and characters with a cool and dispassionate 
eye, must present to his readers a faithful copy of humaa 
nature. 

At the same time, it is not every record of facts, however 
true, that is entitled to the name of history ; but such records 
only, as enable us to apply the transactions of former ages 
for our own instruction. The facts ought to be momentous 
and important: represented in connection with their causes, 
traced to their effects, and unfolded in clear and distinct 
order. For history is designed to supply the place of expe¬ 
rience. Though it enforce not its instructions with the 
same authority, yet -it furnishes us a greater variety than it 
is possible for experience to afford, in the course of the longest 
life. Its object is to enlarge our views of the human 
character, and to give full exercise to our judgment on hu¬ 
man affairs. It must not, therefore, be a tale, calculated to 
please only, and addressed to the fancy; but gravity and . 
dignity are its essential characteristics. The writer must 
sustain the character of a wise man, writing for the instruction 
of posterity—one who has studied to inform himself well— 


As it is the office of the orator to persuade, so what is the office of the 
historian; and of this object what is remarked I What are the funda¬ 
mental qualities of an historian ; and what remark follows % At the same 
time, what record of facts only, is entitled to the name of history 'l Of the 
facts themselves what is observed ; how should they be represented; and 
why 1 How does it compare with experience; and what is its object 'l 
What must it not, therefore, be; and what character must the writer 
sustain I 



264 HISTORICAL WRITING. [Lect. 33 

who has pondered his subject with care, and addresses him¬ 
self to our judgment, rather than to our imagination. 

In tne conduct and management of his subject, the first 
attention requisite in an historian, is to give it as much unity 
as possible. His history should not consist of separate and 
unconnected parts. Its portions should be linked together 
by some connecting principle, which should produce in the 
mind the impression of something that is one, whole, and 
entire. It is inconceivable how great an effect this, when 
happily executed, has upon a reader ; and it is surprising 
that some able writers of history have attended so little to it. 
Whether pleasure or instruction be the end sought by the 
study of history, either of them is enjoyed to much greater 
advantage, when the mind has always before it the progress 
of some one great plan or system of action; when there is 
some point or centre, to which the various facts related by 
the historian can be referred. In histories that record the 
affairs of a whole nation or empire throughout several ages, 
to preserve this unity is, necessarily, more difficult. Yet 
even here, some degree of it can, by a skillful writer, be 
still preserved. For though the whole, taken together, be 
very complex, yet the great constituent parts of it form so 
many subordinate wholes, when taken by themselves ; each 
of which can be treated both as complete within itself, and as 
connected with what goes before and what follows. In the 
history of a monarchy, for instance, every reign should have 
its own unity—a beginning, a middle, and an end, to the 
system of affairs; while, at the same time, we are taught to 
discern how that system of affairs rose from the preceding, 
and how it is inserted in what follows. We should be able to 
trace all the secret links of the chain, which binds together 
remote, and seemingly unconnected events. Of all the 
ancient general historians, Polybius, though not in other 
respects an elegant writer, had the most correct idea of this 
quality of historical composition. 


In the management of his subject, what is the first attention requisite 
m an historian; and how is this remark illustrated ! Of the effect of this, 
what is remarked; and what is surprising! Whether pleasure or in¬ 
struction be the end sought by the study of history, when is either of these 
enjoyed to the greater advantage ? In what histories is it difficult to pre¬ 
serve this unity ; yet what remark follows ; and why is this the case ? How 
is this illustrated in the history of a monarchy ! What should we be able 
to do; and of Polybius, what is remarked % 



Lbct. 33.] HISTORICAL WRITING 265 

Having considered the unity which belongs to this kind 
of composition, we next proceed to observe, that the author 
must study to trace to their source, the actions and events 
which he records. To do this successfully, he should be 
acquainted with human nature, and also possess a large 
share of political knowledge. His skill in the former will 
enable him to describe the characters of individuals ; and his 
proficiency in the latter will prepare him for the task of re¬ 
cording revolutions of government, and for accounting for 
the operation of political causes on public affairs. With 
regard to political knowledge, the ancients wanted some 
advantages which the moderns enjoy. There was not, in 
ancient times, so free a communication among neighboring 
states, as there is at present. There prevailed no regular 
intercourse by established posts ; and there were no ambas¬ 
sadors residing at distant courts. A larger experience, 
too, of the different modes of government, has improved the 
modern historian beyond the historian of antiquity. 

We are by no means, however, to censure all the ancient 
historians as being defective in political information. No 
historians can be more instructive than Thucydides, Po¬ 
lybius, and Tacitus. Thucydides is grave, intelligent, and 
judicious ; always attentive to give very exact information of 
what he relates; and to show the advantages or disadvan¬ 
tages of every plan that was proposed, and every measure 
that was pursued. Polybius excels in comprehensive po¬ 
litical views, in penetration into great systems, and in his pro¬ 
found and distinct knowledge of all military affairs. Tacitus 
is eminent for his knowledge of the human heart; is senti¬ 
mental and refined in a high degree; conveys much in¬ 
struction with respect to political matters, but none with 
respect to human nature. 

We next proceed to consider the proper qualities of histo¬ 
rical narration; as in the form of this, and not by the affected 
mode of dissertation, is the historian to impart his political 
knowledge. Formal discussions expose him to the suspicion 

After unity, wliat is next to be attended to by the historian; and to do 
this successfully, what is requisite 1 What will be the advantage of his 
skill in the former, and of his proficiency in the latter 1 With regard to 
political knowledge, what advantage have the moderns over the ancients 1 
Why, however, are we not to censure all the ancient historians as being 
deficient in political information ; and of Thucydides, Polybius, and Taci- 
tus, respectively, what is remarked 1 What do we next proceed to con¬ 
sider ; and why 'l Of formal discussions what is observed; and what 
remark follows 'l 


23 



266 HISTORICAL WRITING. [Lei . 33. 

of being willing to accommodate his facts to his tl <?ory. 
They have also an air of pedantry, and are an evident result 
of his want of art. For reflections, whether moral, political, 
or philosophical, may be insinuated into the body of the 
narration. 

The first virtue of historical narration, is clearness, order, 
and due connection. To attain this, the historian must be 
completely master of his subject. He must see the whole as 
at one view ; and comprehend the chain and dependance of 
all its parts, that he may introduce every thing in its proper 
place—that he may lead us smoothly along the tract of affairs 
which are recorded, and may give us the satisfaction of 
seeing how one event arises out of another. Without this 
there can be neither pleasure nor instruction in reading his¬ 
tory. Much, for this end, will depend on the observance of 
unity in the general plan and conduct; and much, too, on 
the proper management of transactions, which forms one of 
the chief ornaments of this kind of writing, and is, one of the 
most difficult in execution. 

In the next place, as history is a very dignified species of 
composition, gravity must always be maintained in the nar¬ 
ration. There should be nothing mean nor vulgar in the 
style ; no quaint nor colloquial phrases ; no affectation of 
pertness, nor of wit. The smart or the sneering manner of 
telling a story, is inconsistent with the historical character. 
We do not, however, pretend to say, that an historian is never 
to let himself down. He may sometimes do it with pro¬ 
priety, in order to diversify the strain of his narration, which 
if it be perfectly uniform, is apt to become tiresome. But 
he must be careful not to descend too far. 

As history must be read with pleasure to be read with 
profit, the great study of the historian should be to render 
his narration interesting. This is the quality that chiefly 
distinguishes the genius and eloquence of the writer. Two 
things are especially conducive to this : the first is, a just 
medium in the conduct of narration, between a rapid or 
crowded recital of facts, and a prolix detail. The former 


What is the first virtue of historical narration; to attain this what is 
requisite; and why ? For attaining this end, on what will much depend I 
In the next place, what must be always maintained in the narration ; and 
how is this remark illustrated 'l What, however, do we not pretend to say; 
and why may he sometimes do this ? What should be the great study of 
the historian ; why ; and of this quality what is remarked % What is the 
first thing that is conducive to this; and what is their effect ? 



Lect. 33.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 26? 

embarrasses, and the latter tires us. An historian that 
would interest us, must know when to be concise, and when 
to enlarge ; passing lightly over slight and unimportant 
events, but dwelling on such as are, in their nature, striking 
and important. The next thing he must attend to, is a pro¬ 
per selection of the circumstances belonging to those events 
which he cabooses to relate fully. It is by means of these 
that a narration becomes interesting and affecting to the 
reader. These give life, body, and coloring, to the recital of 
facts, and enable us to behold them as present, and passing 
before our eyes, ^is this employment of circumstances in 
narration, that is properly termed historical painting. 

In all these qualities of history, and particularly in 
picturesque description, the ancients eminently excel. Hence 
the pleasure of reading Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, 
Livy, Sallust, and Tacitus. Herodotus is always an agree¬ 
able writer, and relates every thing with that simplicity of 
manner that never fails to interest the reader. Though the 
manner of Thucydides be more harsh and dry, yet, on great 
occasions, such as the plague at Athens, or the defeat of the 
Athenians in Sicily, he displays a very strong and masterly 
power of description. Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, and his 
Anabasis, are extremely beautiful. The circumstances are 
finely selected, and the narration is easy and engaging. 
Sallust’s Art of Historical Painting in his Catilinarian and 
Jugurthine Wars, is well known ; though his style is liable 
to censure, being too studied and affected. Livy is more 
unexceptionable in his manner, and is excelled by no historian 
whatever in the art of narration. Tacitus, also, is eminent 
for historical painting, though in a manner altogether differ¬ 
ent from that of Livy. Livy’s descriptions are more full, 
more plain, and natural; those of Tacitus consist in a few 
bold strokes. He selects one or two remarkable circum¬ 
stances, and sets them before us in a strong, and, generally, 
in a new and uncommon light. 

The ancients employed one embellishment of history 
which the moderns have laid aside. This was the putting of 
orations into the mouths of celebrated personages. By means 

What must an historian that would interest us know, and do 1 What 
is the next thing to be attended to ; and of these what is remarked 'l What 
is this properly termed 'l In all these qualities of history, who eminently 
excel; and hence what follows 'l Of them respectively, what is remarked I 
What embellishment of history did the ancients employ, which the moderns 
nave laid aside; and by means of these, what did they effect I 



268 HISTORICAL WRITING. [Lect. 33. 

of these, they diversified their history; they conveyed both 
moral and political instruction ; and, by the opposite argu¬ 
ments which were employed, they gave us a view oi the sen¬ 
timents of different parties. Thucydides was the first who 
introduced this practice ; and the orations with which his 
history abounds, are among the most valuable remains which 
we have of ancient eloquence. It is doubtful, however, 
whether this embellishment should be allowed to the his¬ 
torian : for they form a mixture that is unnatural, joining 
together truth and fiction. We know that these orations are 
entirely of the author’s own composition,, and that he has 
introduced some celebrated person haranguing in a public 
place, purely that he might have an opportunity of showing 
his own eloquence, or delivering his own sentiments, under 
the name of another. This is a sort of poetical liberty 
which does not suit the gravity of history, throughout which 
an air of the strictest truth should always reign. The 
moderns are, perhaps, more chaste, when, on great occa¬ 
sions, the historian delivers, in his own person, the senti¬ 
ments and reasonings of opposite and contending factions. 

Another splendid embellishment of historical composition, 
is the delineation of characters. These are generally con¬ 
sidered professed exhibitions of fine writing; and an his¬ 
torian who seeks to shine in them, is frequently in danger 
of carrying refinement to excess, from a desire of appearing 
very profound and penetrating. A writer who would 
characterize in an instructive and masterly manner, should 
be simple in his style, and should avoid all quaintness and 
affectation : at the same time, he should not content himself 
with giving us general outlines only, but should descend 
into those peculiarities which mark a character in its strong¬ 
est and most distinctive features. 

As history is a species of composition designed for the 
instruction of mankind, sound morality should always 
reign in it. Both in describing characters, and in relating 
transactions, the author should always show himself to be 


Who first introduced this practice; and of his orations what is remarked 7 
Why, however, is it doubtful whether this embellishment should be allowed 
to the historian; and what remark follows'? Of this, what is farther ob¬ 
served ; and what course have the moderns pursued 'l What is another 
splendid embellishment of historical composition ; how are these generally 
considered; and what fellows'? What is said of a writer who would 
characterize in a masterly manner 7 As history is designed for the instruc¬ 
tion of mankind, what should reign in it; and what remark follows 7 



Lect. 33.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 269 

on the side of virtue. To deliver moral instructions m a 
formal manner, it is true, falls not within his province; hut 
as a good man, we expect him to discover sentiments of 
respect for virtue, and of indignation at flagrant vice. To 
appear neutral and indifferent with respect to good and bad 
characters, derogates, greatly, from the weight of historical 
composition, and renders the strain of it cold and uninterest¬ 
ing. We are always most interested in passing transactions, 
when our sympathy is awakened by the story, and when we 
become engaged in the fate of the actors. But this effect 
can never be produced by a writer, who is deficient in sen¬ 
sibility and correct moral feeling. 

In modern times, historical genius has shown forth with 
most lustre in Italy. The natural characters of the Italians, 
seems favorable to it. They are an acute, penetrating, 
reflecting people, remarkable for political sagacity, and 
addicted to the arts of writing. Accordingly, soon after 
the restoration of letters, Machiavel, Guicciardini, Davila, 
Bentivoglio, and Father Paul, became highly conspicuous 
for historical merit. Though they have their defects, yet 
they all appear to have conceived very just ideas of history ; 
and are agreeable, instructing, and interesting writers. 
Among the French there has been much good historical 
writing; but they have produced no such historians as the 
Italians just mentioned. In Great Britain, history has not, 
until recently, been fashionable. For though the celebrated 
Buchanan of Scotland, and Lord Clarendon and Bishop 
Burnett, of England, are very considerable historians, yet 
they are far inferior to Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon. Of 
the latter, however, we are constrained to say, that, while 
his history is replete with the deepest interest, his irreligious 
sentiments are so pernicious, as to render it a dangerous . 
work, in the hands of any youth, however well guarded. 

The inferior kinds of historical composition are annals, 
memoirs, and lives. Annals are a collection of facts, 
according to chronological order : all that is required, there¬ 
fore, of an annalist, is fidelity and distinctness. Memoirs 

What falls not within his province; but what do we expect of him 'l 
What is the effect of appearing indifferent with regard to good or bad 
characters ; why; and what remark follows % Of the historical genius of 
the Italians w 7 hat is remarked and accordingly what follows % What is 
farther observed of them; and also of the French 1 What is said of the 
historians of Great Britain; and what remark follows 1 Of the latter par¬ 
ticularly, what is observed 1 What are the inferior kinds of historical 
composition; what is remarked of annals, and also of memoirs 'l 



270 HISTORICAL WRITING. [Lect. 33. 

are a composition which pretends not to hold out a complete 
detail of the period to which it relates, but only to record 
what the author knows in his own person, or from particular 
information, concerning any certain object, transaction, or 
event. It is not, therefore, expected of such a writer, that 
he should possess that profound research, and those superior 
talents, which are requisite in an historian. It is chiefly 
required of him, that he should be lively and interesting. 
The French have put forth a flood of memoirs, the greater 
part of which are to be regarded as agreeable trifles. We 
must, however, exempt from this censure, the memoirs of 
the Cardinal de Retz, and those of the duke of Sully. The 
former join to a lively narrative, great knowledge of human 
nature. The latter deserves very particular praise. They 
approach to the dignity of legitimate history. They are 
full of virtue and good sense; and are well calculated to 
form both the heads and the hearts of those who are designed 
for high stations in the world. 

The writing of lives, or biography, is a sort of compo¬ 
sition less stately than history; but it is, perhaps, more 
instructive. It affords the full opportunities of displaying 
the characters of eminent men, and of entering into a 
thorough acquaintance with them. In this kind of writing 
Plutarch excels ; but his matter is better than his manner ; 
and he has no peculiar beauty or elegance. His judgment, 
too, and accuracy, are not to be highly commended. But 
he is a very humane writer, and fond of displaying great 
men in the gentle lights of retirement. 


What is not expected of such a writer ; and what is required of him 'l 
What is remarked of French memoirs ; what are exceptions ; and how is 
this illustrated 'l Of the writing of lives what is observed; and in this 
kind of composition, what is said of Plutarch 1 


ANALYSIS. 


Historical writing. 

1. Unity to be attended to. 

2. Actions to be traced to their 

source. 

A. Requisites for this. 

3. The qualities of the narration. 

A. Clearness, order, and con¬ 

nection. 

B. Gravity to be preserved. 


C. The narrative to be in¬ 

teresting. 

a. The ancients eminent in 
this. 

D. Orations employed by the 

ancients. 

E. Delineation of characters. 

F. Sound morality indispensable. 

4. Modern historians. 

5. Annals—memoirs—biography. 






LECTURE XXXIV. 

PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING—DIALOGUE—EPIS¬ 
TOLARY WRITING—FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 

As the professed object of philosophy is to convey instruc¬ 
tion, and as those who study it are supposed to do so for 
their improvement, and not for their entertainment, the style, 
the form, and the dress of such writings, are not very mate¬ 
rial objects. They are not, however, to be wholly neglected; 
for the same truths delivered in an elegant manner, will be 
much more effective than though they were delivered in a 
dry and uninteresting one. 

In a philosophical writer, the strictest accuracy and pre¬ 
cision are required. He must employ no word of uncertain 
meaning ; and must avoid using words that may seem to be 
synonymous, without attending to the variations which they 
make upon the idea. But as he may do this, and still be a 
very dry writer, he must also study some degree of embel¬ 
lishment, in order to render his composition pleasing and 
graceful. One of the most agreeable, and, at the same 
time, one of the most useful embellishments that a philo¬ 
sopher can employ, consists in illustrations taken from his¬ 
torical facts, and the characters of men. All moral and 
political subjects naturally afford scope for these ; and wher¬ 
ever there is room for employing them, they seldom fail to 
produce a happy effect. They diversify the composition, 
relieve the mind from the fatigue of mere reasoning, and, at 
the same time, give fuller conviction, than can otherwise 
possibly be produced. 

Philosophical writing also admits of a polished, neat, and 
elegant style. It admits of metaphors, comparisons, and all 
the calm figures of speech, by which an author may convey 
his sense to the understanding with clearness and force, at 


As the professed object of philosophy is to convey instruction, what fol¬ 
lows ; but why are they not to be wholly neglected ? In an historical 
writer, what are required ; and how is this illustrated I But as he may 
do this, and still be a dry writer, what follows I What is one of the most 
useful embellishments that a philosopher can employ; and what naturally 
afford scope for these 1 What is their effect I What style, and what 
figures, does philosophical writing admit: but of what must he be careful 1 



272 PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. [Lect. 34 

the same time that he entertains the imagination. He must 
be careful, however, that all his ornaments he of the chastest 
kind, never partaking of the florid or tumid ; which is so 
unpardonable in a professed philosopher, that it is much 
better for him to err on the side of unadorned simplicity, 
than on that of too much ornament. Plato and Cicero have 
left philosophical treatises, composed with much elegance 
and beauty. Seneca, on the contrary, has been justly cen¬ 
sured for the affectation of his style. He is too fond of a 
certain brilliant and sparkling manner—of antitheses and 
quaint sentences. In English, Mr. Locke’s celebrated 
Treatise on Human Understanding, is a model of a clear 
and distinct philosophical style. The writings of Lord 
Shaftesbury, are dressed out with too much ornament and 
finery. 

Philosophical writing sometimes assumes the form of 
dialogue. Under this form the ancients have given us some of 
their chief philosophical works ; and several of the moderns 
have endeavored to imitate them. A dialogue on some phi¬ 
losophical, moral, or critical subject, when well executed, 
stands in a high rank among the works of taste ; but the 
execution is very difficult; for it requires more than merely 
the introduction of different persons speaking in succession. 
It ought to be a natural and spirited representation of real 
conversation ; exhibiting the character and manners of the 
several speakers, and suiting to the character of each, that 
peculiarity of thought and expression, which distinguishes 
him from another. A dialogue thus conducted, gives the 
reader a very agreeable entertainment; as by means of the 
debate going on among the personages, he receives a fair 
and full view of both sides of the argument, and is, at the 
same time, amused with polite conversation, and with a dis¬ 
play of consistent and well supported characters. 

Among the ancients, Plato is eminent for the beauty of 
his dialogues. In richness of imagination, no philosophical 
writer, either ancient or modern, is equal to him. His only 


Of the philosophical writings of Plato and Cicero, and of those of 
Seneca, what is remarked 'l What is observed of Mr. Locke and Lord 
Shaftesbury 1 What form does philosophical writing sometimes assume; 
and what remark follows 'l What is remarked of a dialogue on some phi¬ 
losophical, moral, or critical subject; but why is the execution difficult 1 
What ought it to be; what is said of a dialogue thus conducted; and why 'l 
Among the ancients, what is remarked of Plato; and what is his only 
fault 7 



Lect. 34.] EPISTOLARY WRITING. 273 

fault is the excessive fertility of his imagination, which 
sometimes carries him into allegory, fiction, enthusiasm, 
and the airy regions of mystical theology. Cicero has 
also distinguished himself by his dialogues; but they are 
not so spirited and characteristical as those of Plato. They 
are, however, agreeable, and well supported ; and show us 
how conversations were carried on among the principal per 
sons of ancient Rome. Of the light and humorous dialogue, 
Lucian is an excellent model ; and he has been imitated by 
many modern writers. Fontenelle has written dialogues 
which are sprightly and agreeable; but as for characters, 
whoever his personages aTe, they all become Frenchmen. 
The divine dialogues of Dr. Henry More, amidst academic 
stiffness, are often remarkable for character and vivacity. 
Bishop Berkeley’s dialogues furnish an instance of a very 
abstract subject, rendered clear and intelligible by means of 
conversation properly managed. 

We proceed next to treat of epistolary writing, which 
occupies a kind of middle place between serious and amusing 
composition. Epistolary writing appears, at first view, to 
stretch into a very wide field; for there is no subject on 
which one may not convey his thoughts to the public, in the 
form of a letter. Lord Shaftesbury, and several other writers, 
have chosen to give this form to philosophical treatises. But 
this is not sufficient to class them under the head of episto¬ 
lary composition. Though they bear in the title page, a 
Letter to a Friend, yet after the first address, the friend dis¬ 
appears, and we see that it is, in truth, the public with whom 
the author corresponds. Where one writes a real letter on 
some formal topic, as of moral or religious consolation to a 
person under distress, he is at liberty to write wholly?- as a 
divine or as a philosopher, and to assume the style and man¬ 
ner of one, without reprehension. On such an occasion, 
we consider the author not as writing a letter, but as com¬ 
posing a discourse, suited particularly to the circumstances 
of some one person. 


What is observed of Cicero’s dialogues; of Lucian’s; and also of Fon- 
tenelle’s 'l Of the dialogues of Dr. Henry More, and of those of Bishop 
Berkeley, what is remarked 1 To what do we next proceed ; and what is 
observed of it 'l Into what does epistolary writing appear, at first view, to 
stretch; and why 1 What have Lord Shaftesbury, and several other 
writers, done; but of these, what is remarked 1 When is one at liberty 
to write wholly as a divine, or as a philosopher; and on such occasions, 
what do we consider the author as writing 1 



274 EPISTOLARY WRITING. [Lect. 34. 

Epistolary writing becomes a distinct species of compo¬ 
sition, when it is of the easy and familiar kind only—when 
it is conversation carried on upon paper between two 
friends at a distance. Much, therefore, of the merit ol 
it, will depend on its introducing us to some acquaintance 
with the writer. There, if any where, we look for the man, 
not for the author. Its first and fundamental requisite is, to 
be natural and simple; for a stiff and labored manner is as 
bad in a letter, as it is in conversation. This does not 
banish sprightliness and wit; for these, when they flow 
easy, and without being studied, are as graceful in letters 
as they are in conversation. Generally speaking, the best 
letters are those which are written with most facility. What 
the heart or the imagination dictates, always flows readily; but 
where there is no subject to warm or interest these, constraint 
appears; and hence those letters of mere compliment, con¬ 
gratulation, or affected condolence, never fail of being the 
most disagreeable and insipid to the readers. It must, how¬ 
ever, be remembered, that the ease and simplicity here 
recommended in epistolary correspondence, are not to be un¬ 
derstood as importing entire carelessness. In writing to the 
most intimate friend, a certain degree of attention, both to 
the subject and to the style, is requisite and becoming. It is 
no more than what we owe, both to ourselves, and to the 
friend with whom we correspond : for a slovenly and negli 
gent manner is a mark of disrespect. 

Pliny’s letters form one of the most celebrated collections 
of epistles of ancient times. They are elegant and polite ; 
and exhibit a very pleasing and amiable view of the author. 
But they smell too much of the lamp. They are too highly 
finished ; and it is difficult to persuade oneself that the au¬ 
thor is not casting an eye towards the public, when he is 
appearing to write for his friends only. Cicero’s Epistles, 
though not so showy as those of Pliny, are much more 
valuable; indeed, they are the most valuable collection of 
letters extant in any language. They are composed with 


When does epistolary writing become a distinct species of composition; 
and on what, therefore, will much of the merit of it depend'? What is its 
fundamental requisite; and why 1 Why does this not banish spright¬ 
liness and wit 1 What are, generally speaking, the best letters ; and what 
remark follows 1 What must, however, be remarked; and why is this the 
case 'l What is observed of Pliny’s Letters; and what are their charac¬ 
teristics ? Of those of Cicero, what is remarked 'l How r are they com¬ 
posed ; and what much enhances their merit 1 



Lect. 34.] EPISTOLARY WRITING. # 275 

purity and elegance, but without the least affectation ; and 
what much enhances their merit, they were written without 
any intention of being published to the world. Cicero him¬ 
self, it appears, kept no copies of his own letters ; but for 
the large collection still extant, amounting to more than a 
thousand, we are indebted to his freedman Tyro, who col¬ 
lected and published them after Cicero’s death. 

The most distinguished collection of letters in the English 
language, is that of Mr. Pope, Dean Swift, and their friends; 
a part of which are published in Mr. Pope’s works, and the 
rest in those of Dean Swift. They are entertaining and 
agreeable ; and contain much wit and refinement. Some of 
them, however, bear the impress of too much study and 
attention. Those of Dr. Arbuthnot deserve high praise; 
being written with ease and beautiful simplicity. Dean 
Swift’s, also, are unaffected; and as a proof that they are, 
they exhibit his character fully, with all its defects. Several 
of Lord Bolingbroke’s, and of Bishop Atterbury’s letters, 
are masterly. In those of Mr. Pope, there is, in general, 
too much study ; and his letters in particular to Ladies, are 
too full of affectation. 

The gayety and vivacity of the French genius appears to 
much advantage in their letters, and have given birth to 
several agreeable publications, Balzac and Yoiture are 
both celebrated epistolary writers. The former is swelling 
and pompous ; the latter sparkling and witty. The letters ot 
Madame de Sevigne, are esteemed the most accomplished 
model of a familiar correspondence. They turn, indeed, 
very much upon trifles, the incidents of the day, and the 
news of the town ; and if they did not, they would not be , 
French ; but still, they are easy, varied, lively, and beautiful. 
The letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, have much 
of the French ease and vivacity; and are, perhaps, more 
remarkable for pure epistolary style, than any other letters 
in the English language. 

There remains one other species of composition in prose, 

As Cicero kept no copies of his letters, how were they preserved 'l What 
is the most distinguished collection of letters in the English language; 
and where are they published 1 Wdiat is remarked of them; but of what 
do some of them bear the impress 1 What is observed of those of Dr. 
Arbuthnot, Dean Swift, Lord Bolingbroke, Bishop Atterbury, and Mr. 
Pope 'l Of the gayety and vivacity of the French genius, what is remarked; 
to what have they given birth ; and what illustrations follow 1 Of the 
letters of Madame de Sevigne, and of those of Lady Montague, what is 
observed 1 What other species of composition remains to be considered 7 



276 * FICTITIOUS HISTORY. [Lect. 34. 

to be considered, and which comprehends a very numerous, 
though, in general, a very insignificant class of writings, 
under the name of romances and novels. These may, at 
first view, seem too insignificant to deserve any particular 
attention ; but their influence is very great, both on the mo¬ 
rals and the taste of a nation. In reality, fictitious histo¬ 
ries might be employed for very useful purposes. They 
furnish one of the best channels for conveying instruction, for 
painting human life and manners, for showing the errors 
into which we are betrayed by our passions, for rendering 
-virtue amiable, and vice odious, that can possibly be afforded. 
The effect of well contrived stories towards accomplishing 
these purposes, is greater than any effect that can be pro¬ 
duced by simple instruction; and hence we find, that the 
wisest men in all ages, have more or less employed fables 
and fictions, as the vehicles of knowledge. These have even 
been the basis of both epic and dramatic poetry. It is not, 
therefore, the nature of this sort of writing, considered in 
itself, but the manner of its execution, that exposes it to con¬ 
tempt. Lord Bacon remarks, that our taste for fictitious 
history, is a proof of the greatness and dignity of the human 
mind. ‘ Not satisfied with the sober realities of life,’ he 
observes, ‘we create worlds according to our fancy, in order 
to gratify our capacious desires ; accommodating the appear¬ 
ances of things to the desires of the mind, not bringing 
down the mind, as history and philosophy do, to the course 
of events.’ As fictitious history, therefore, wants neither 
dignity nor use, we shall make a few observations on the 
rise and progress of it, and the different forms it has 
assumed in different countries. 

Fictitious history originated at a very early period of the 
world. In the eastern nations, particularly, the attention 
of men was, from the earliest times, much turned towards 
invention, and the love of fiction. Their divinity, their phi¬ 
losophy, and their politics, were clothed in fables and pa¬ 
rables. The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments are the 
production of a romantic invention, but of a rich and amusing 


Why do these deserve particular attention; and why might fictitious 
histories be employed for useful purposes 1 Of their effect, what is farther 
observed ; and hence what follows 'l Of what are these the basis; and 
what follows 1 Of our taste for fictitious history, what says Lord Bacon ; 
and, therefore, what shall we do 1 What account is given of the origin 
of fictitious history ; of the Arabian Nights, what is remarked; and what 
others are mentioned'? 



IjEct. 34.] FICTITIOUS HISTORY. ‘277 

imagination ; exhibiting a singular and curious display of 
manners and characters, and beautified with a very humane 
morality. Among the ancient Greeks and Romans also, 
we hear of fictitious histories, hut none of them merit par¬ 
ticular criticism. 

During the dark ages, this sort of writing assumed a new 
and very singular form, and for a long time made a great 
figure in the xvorld. The martial spirit of those nations 
among whom the feudal government prevailed ; the establish¬ 
ment of single combat, as an allowed method of deciding 
causes both of justice and of honor ; the appointment of 
champions in the cause of women, who could not maintain 
their own right by the sword ; together with the institution 
of military tournaments, gave rise, in those times, to that 
marvellous system of chivalry, which is one of the most 
singular appearances in the history of mankind. Upon 
these were founded those romances of knight-errantry, 
which carried an ideal chivalry to a still more extravagant 
height than it had reached in fact. They exhibited knights 
is patterns, not only of the most heroic courage, but as su¬ 
perlatively eminent for religion, generosity, courtesy, and 
fidelity; and ladies, who were distinguished, in the greatest 
degree, for modesty, delicacy* and dignity of manners. 

The earliest of these romances was written in the eleventh 
century. The subject is the achievements of Charlemagne 
and his peers, in driving the Saracens out of France and a 
part of Spain—the same subject that Ariosto has taken for 
his celebrated poem of Orlando Furioso, which, of the roman¬ 
ces of those times, is unquestionably the most perfect model 
that was produced. In Spain, where the taste for this sort 
of writing was most prevalent, the ingenious Cervantes, in 
the beginning of the seventeenth century, contributed greatly 
to explode it; and the abolition of tournaments, the pro¬ 
hibition of single combat, the disbelief of magic and en¬ 
chantments, and the general change of manners throughout 
Europe, began to give a new turn to fictitious composition. 

Of the second stage of romance writing, the Cleopatra of 


What is said of this sort of writing during the dark ages ; and what 
gave rise to that marvellous system of chivalry which then prevailed 7 
Upon these what were formed ; and what do they exhibit 7 When was 
the earliest of these romances written ; what is the subject of it; and of 
Orlando Furioso, what remark follows 7 What was done by Cervantes 
in Spain; and what followed 7 What are examples of the second stage 
of romance writing; and of these what is observed ; and what followed 7 

24 



278 FICTITIOUS HISTORY. [Lect. 34. 

Madame Scuderi, and the Arcadia of Sir Philip Sydney, are 
good examples. In these, however, there was still too large 
a proportion of the marvellous ; and the books were too 
voluminous and unwieldly. Romance writing appeared, 
therefore, in a new form: it dwindled down to the familiar 
novel. These, at first, were, in general, of a trifling nature, 
without the appearance of moral tendency, or useful in¬ 
struction. Latterly, however, novel writing has, m its 
spirit, been very much improved. The conduct of persons 
in interesting situations in real life, has been exhibited; 
that whatever is laudable or defective in character, might be 
clearly perceived. 

Upon this plan, until recently, the French far surpassed 
the English ; and the Gil Bias of Le Sage, the Marianne of 
Marivaux, and the Nouvelle Heloise of Rousseau, stood 
unrivalled. This, however, at present, is far from being the 
case. Besides Robinson Crusoe, the novels of Mr. Field¬ 
ing, and those of Mr. Richardson, all of which are well 
known, we have recently produced many works of fiction, 
which confer the highest honor on both the morals and the 
taste of their authors. Whilst the English language shall 
be understood and appreciated, and a perception of the beau¬ 
tiful and the pathetic remain, the works of Sir Walter Scott, 
of Miss Porter, and of some others, of England, and of 
Washington Irving, of America, will continue to be read 
with deep interest, and lasting advantage. 


What was, at first, the character of these; but what has novel writing 
latterly become'? Upon this plan, until recently, how did the French and 
the English compare; and of their present state, what illustrative remarks 
follow 1 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Philosophical writing. 

A. Accuracy and precision re¬ 

quisite. 

B. The style. 

2. Dialogues. 

A. Ancient dialogists. 

B. Modern dialogists. 

3 Epistolary writing. 

A. A distinct species of compo¬ 
sition. 


a. Its requisites. 

B. Ancient letters. 

C. Modern letters. 

4. Fictitious history. 

A. Lord Bacon’s remark. 

B. Its origin. 

C. Its different forms. 

D. Its present state. 






LECTURE XXXY. 

NATURE OF POETRY—ITS ORIGIN AND 
PROGRESS—VERSIFICATION. 

As we have now finished our observations on the differ¬ 
ent kinds of writing in prose, it remains to treat of poetical 
composition. Before we enter on the consideration of any 
of its particular kinds, we design, in this lecture, as an intro¬ 
duction to the subject of poetry in general, to treat of its 
nature, give an account of its origin, and make some ob¬ 
servations on versification, or poetical numbers. 

Our first inquiry is. What is poetry ? and wherein does it 
differ from prose ? The answer to this question is not so 
easy as might at first be imagined; and critics have dis¬ 
puted much concerning it. The essence of poetry is sup¬ 
posed by Plato, Aristotle, and others, to consist in fiction. 
But this is certainly too limited; for though fiction may 
hare a great share in many poetical compositions, yet many 
subjects of poetry may not be feigned; as where the poet 
describes objects which actually exist, or pours forth the 
real sentiments of his own heart. Others have made the 
characteristic of poetry to lie in imitation. But this is also 
indefinite: for several other arts imitate as well as poetry; 
and an imitation of human characters and manners may be 
carried on in the humblest prose, as well as in the loftiest 
poetic strain. 

Perhaps the best definition that can be given of poetry is, 
* that it is the language of passion, or of enlivened imagina¬ 
tion, formed, most commonly, into regular numbers.’ As 
the primary aim of the poet is to please and to move, it is 
to the imagination and the passions that he addresses himself. 
He may, and he ought to have it in his view, to instruct and 
to reform; but it is indirectly, and by pleasing and moving, 

Of what does it now remain to treat 1 Before we enter on the con¬ 
sideration of any of its particular kinds, as what do we design this lecture T 
What is our first inquiry; and what is remarked of the answer to it 1 In 
what is the essence of poetry supposed, by some, to consist; but why is 
this too Smiled \ In what have others made the characteristics of poetry 
to lie; but why is this mdefinite 1 "What is the best definition that can 
be grren of poetry: and why does the poet address himself to the imagina¬ 
tion and the pasions 1 



280 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [Lect. 35. 

that he accomplishes this end. His mind is supposed to be 
animated by some interesting object which fires his imagina¬ 
tion, or engages his passions ; and which, of course, com¬ 
municates to his style a peculiar elevation suited to his ideas ; 
very different from that mode of expression, which is natural 
to the mind in its calm, ordinary state. Though versification 
is, in general, the external distinction of pcetry, yet there 
are some forms of verse so loose and familiar, as to be 
hardly distinguishable from prose; such as the verse of the 
Comedies of Terence; and there is also a species of prose, 
so measured in its cadence, and so much raised in its tone, 
as to approach very near to poetical numbers ; such as the 
Telemachus of Fenelon ; and the English translation of 
Ossian. The fact is, so far as the exterior form is concerned, 
verse and prose, on some occasions, run into each other, 
like light and shade. 

It has been often observed that poetry is older than prose ; 
and the concurring voice of all antiquity attests the truth of 
the remark. But in what sense this seemingly strange 
paradox holds true, has not always been well understood. 
There never, certainly, was any period of society, in which 
men conversed together in poetical numbers. It was in 
very humble and scanty prose that the first tribes carried on 
intercourse among themselves, relating to the wants and 
necessities of life. But from the very beginning of society, 
there were occasions on which they met together for feasts, 
sacrifices, and public assemblies ; and on all such occasions 
music, song, and dance, made their principal entertainment. 
It is chiefly in America, that we have the opportunity ol 
becoming acquainted with men in their savage state. Among 
the numerous tribes of this vast continent, music and song 
are, at all their meetings, carried on with an incredible de¬ 
gree of enthusiasm. It is in songs that they celebrate their 
religious rites ; by these they lament their public and pri¬ 
vate calamities—the death of friends, or the loss of warriors • 


What ought he to have in view; but what follows 7 In what state is 
his mind supposed to be ; and what does this communicate to his style I 
Though versification, in general, is the external distinction of poetry, yet 
what remark follows; and what illustrations are given 'l What has been 
often observed ; and what attests the truth of the remark 1 How is this 
seeming paradox fully explained I In what country have we an opportu¬ 
nity of becoming acquainted with man in his savage state 1 Among the 
tribes of this vast continent, what is remarked of music and song; and 
how is this remark illustrated 1 



Lect. 35.J OF POETRY. 281 

express their joy on their victories ; celebrate the great 
actions of their nation and their heroes; excite each other 
to perform brave exploits in war, or suffer death and tor¬ 
ments with unshaken constancy. It is, therefore, in those 
rude effusions which the enthusiasm of fancy or passion 
suggested to untaught men, when roused by interesting 
events, and by their meetings together in public assemblies, 
that we see the first beginnings of poetic composition. 

Man is, by nature, both a poet and a musician. The same 
impulse which produces an enthusiastic poetic style, prompted 
a certain melody, or modulation of sound, suited to the emo¬ 
tions of joy or grief, of admiration, love, or anger. There 
is a power in sound, which, partly from nature, and partly 
from habit and association, makes such pathetic impressions 
on the fancy, as delight even the wildest barbarians. Music 
and poetry, therefore, had the same origin ; they were 
prompted by the same occasions ; they were written in song ; 
and, as long as they continued united, they, no doubt, na¬ 
turally tended to heighten and exalt each others power. 
The first poets sung their own verses ; and hence the be¬ 
ginning of what we call versification, or the management 
of words so as to be suited to some tune or melody. 

From what has been said, it is manifest that the first com 
positions which were either recorded by writing, or trans¬ 
mitted by tradition, must have been poetical compositions. 
No other than these could draw the attention of men in their 
rude uncivilized state. Indeed they knew no other. Cool 
reasoning and plain discourse, had no power to attract 
savage tribes, addicted only to hunting and war. There 
was nothing that could either rouse the speaker to pour 
himself forth, or to draw the crowd to listen, but the high 
powers of passion, of music, and of sung. This vehicle, 
therefore, and no other, could be employed by chiefs and 
legislators, when they meant to instruct or animate their 
tribes. Indeed, the earliest accounts which history gives 
as concerning all nations, bear testimony to these facts. 
In the first ages of Greece, priests, philosophers, and states- 


Where, therefore, do we see the first beginnings of poetic composition 1 
What is man by nature; and how is this illustrated 'l What power does 
sound possess ; of music and poetry what inference is drawn; and what 
remarks follow 1 From what has been said, what is manifest; and 
hew does it appear that they knew no other 'l By whom, and when, must 
this vehicle have been employed ; and what bear testimony to these facts ^ 
From the first ages of Greece how is this illustrated 'l 



282 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [Lect. 35. 

men, all delivered their instructions in poetry. Apollo, 
Orpheus, and Amphion, their most ancient bards, are repre¬ 
sented as the first tamers of mankind. Minos and Thales 
sung to the lyre the laws which they composed ; and till the 
age immediately preceding that of Herodotus, history had 
appeared in no other form than that of poetical tales. 

In the same manner, among all other nations, poets and 
songs are the first objects that make their appearance. 
Among the Scythian or Gothic nations, many of their kings 
and leaders were scolders or poets ; and it is from their 
Runic songs, that the earliest writers of their history, acknow¬ 
ledge that they had derived their chief information. Among 
the Celtic tribes, in Gaul, Britain, and Ireland, their bards 
were held in the highest possible estimation, and possessed 
the greatest influence over the people. They were always 
near the person of the chief or sovereign; they recorded 
all his great exploits ; they were employed as the ambassa¬ 
dors between contending tribes, and their persons were held 
sacred. 

From this it follows, that as we have reason to look for 
poems and songs among the antiquities of all countries, so 
we may expect, that during their infancy, there will be, in 
the strain of these, a remarkable resemblance. The occasions 
of their being composed, are every where nearly the same. 
The praises of gods and heroes, the celebration of famed 
ancestors, the recital of martial deeds, songs of victory, and 
songs of lamentation over the misfortunes and death of their 
countrymen, occur amongst all nations ; and the same en¬ 
thusiasm and fire, the same wild and irregular, but animated 
composition, concise and glowing style, bold and extravagant 
figures of speech, are the general distinguishing characters 
of all the most ancient original poetry. 

Diversity of climate, and of manner of living, will, how¬ 
ever, occasion some diversity in the strain of the first 
poetry of nations ; chiefly according as those nations are ol 
a more ferocious, or more gentle spirit; and according as 
they advance faster or slower in the art of civilization. 
Thus we find all the remains of the ancient Gothic po- 


In the same manner, who are the first objects that make their appear¬ 
ance among all nations; and how is this illustrated from the Scythians, 
and the Celtic tribes 1 What station did they occupy ? From this what 
follows; and how is this fully illustrated'? What will be the effect of 
diversity of climate ; and according to what 'l What illustration of this 
remark is given from the Gothic, Peruvian and Chinese, Celtic, Grecian, 
and Persian poetry'? 



Lect. 35.] OF POETRY. 283 

etry remarkably fierce, breathing nothing but slaughter 
and blood; while the Peruvian and Chinese songs turned, 
from the earliest times, upon milder subjects. The Cel¬ 
tic poetry, in the days of Ossian, though chiefly of the 
martial kind, yet had attained a considerable mixture of ten 
derness and refinement. Among the Grecians, poetry ap¬ 
pears to have soon received a philosophical cast, if we may 
judge from the subjects on which it was, at an early period, 
employed; and the Arabians and Persians used poetry as the 
medium of their moral instructions. 

During the infancy of poetry, all the different kinds of it 
were mingled in the same composition, according as inclina¬ 
tion, enthusiasm, or casual incidents, directed the poet’s 
strain. In the progress of society and arts, they began to 
assume those different forms, and to be distinguished by 
those different names, under which we now know them. 
Odes would naturally be among the first compositions; 
according as the bards were roused by religious feeling, 
love, or any other warm sentiment, to pour themselves forth 
in song. Elegiac poetry would as naturally arise from 
lamentations over their deceased friends. The recital of the 
achievements of their ancestors, and their heroes, gave birth 
to what we now call epic poetry ; and in the introduction of 
different bards, speaking in the character of their heroes, 
we find the first outlines of tragedy or dramatic writing. 

Poetry, in its ancient original condition, was, perhaps, 
more vigorous than it is in its modern state. It included 
then the whole burst of the human mind—the whole exertion 
of its imaginative faculties. It spoke the language of passion, 
and no other; for to passion it owed its birth. Prompted 
and inspired by objects which to him seemed great, by 
events which interested his country or his friends, the early 
bard arose and sung. He sung, indeed, in wild and disor¬ 
derly strains ; but they were the native effusions of his 
heart; they were the ardent conceptions of admiration or 
resentment, of sorrow or friendship, which he poured forth. 
In after ages, however, when poetry became a regular art, 


During the infancy of poetry, what is remarked of all the different 
kinds; and what was the effect of improvement in arts 1 What would 
naturally be among the first compositions; and why % How would elegiac, 
epic, and dramatic poetry, naturally originate'? What is remarked of 
poetry in its ancient condition; and what did it then include'? Why did 
it speak the language of passion only; and how is this illustrated 7 What 
is remarked, however, of the poetry of after ages; and what illustration 
fallows'? 



284 VERSIFICATION. [Lect. 35. 

studied for reputation and for gain, authors began to affect 
what they did not feel. Composing coolly in their closets, 
they endeavored to imitate passion, rather than to express it; 
they tried to force their imagination into raptures, or to sup¬ 
ply the defect of native warmth, by those artificial orna¬ 
ments which might give composition a splendid appearance. 

We next proceed to treat of English versification. Na¬ 
tions whose language and pronunciation were of a musical 
kind, rested their versification chiefly upon the quantities 
of their syllables. Others, the quantities of whose syllables 
was not so distinctly perceived in pronouncing them, rested 
the melody of their verse upon the number of syllables it 
contained, upon the proper disposition of accents and pauses 
in it, and frequently upon that return of corresponding 
sounds, which we call rhyme. The former was the case 
with the Greeks and Romans; the latter is the case with us, 
and with most modern nations. Among the Greeks and 
Romans, almost every syllable had a fixed and determined 
quantity ; and their manner of pronouncing rendered this 
so sensible to the ear, that a long syllable was precisely 
equal in time to two short ones. Upon this principle, the 
number of syllables in their hexameter verse was allowed 
to vary from 13 to 17; but the musical time was, notwith¬ 
standing, the same in every verse ; and was always equal to 
twelve long syllables. 

But the introduction of this regular succession of syl¬ 
lables into English verse, would be altogether out of place ; 
for the difference made between long and short syllables, in 
our manner of pronouncing them, is very inconsiderable. 
The only perceptible difference ampng our syllables, arises 
from some of them being uttered with that stronger per¬ 
cussion of voice, which we call accent. This accent, 
however, does not always make the syllable longer. It 
communicates only more force of sound; and it is upon a 
certain order and succession of accented and unaccented 
syllables, more than upon their being short or long, that the 
melody of our verse depends. If we take any of Mr. Pope’s 
lines, and in reciting them alter the quantity of the syllables, 


To what do we next proceed; and on what do different nations rest 
their versification 'l With whom was the former the case; and how is. this 
fully illustrated 1 But why would the introduction of this method into 
English verse, he out of place ; and what is the only perceptible difference 
among our syllables 7 Of this accent what is remarked; upon what does 
the .melody of our verse depend; and how is this illustrated 1 



Lect. 35.] VERSIFICATION. 285 

the music of the verse will not he much injured : hut if we 
do not accent the syllables according- as the verse dictates, 
its melody will be totally destroyed. 

. In the construction of our verse, there is another essential 
circumstance. This is the cassural pause, which falls towards 
the middle of each line. This pause may fall after the 4th, 
the 5th, the 6th, or the 7th syllable; and by this means un¬ 
common variety and richness are given to English versi¬ 
fication. 

When the pause falls earliest, that is, after the 4th sylla¬ 
ble, the briskest melody is thereby formed, and the most 
spirited air given to the line. In the following lines of the 
Rape of the Lock, Mr. Pope has, with exquisite propriety, 
suited the construction of the verse to the subject. 

On her white breast | a sparkling cross she wore, 

Which Jews might kiss | and infidels adore; 

Her lively looks | a sprightly mind disclose, 

Q,uick as her eyes, | and as unfixed as those. 

When the pause falls after the 5th syllable, which divides 
the line into two equal portions, the melody is sensibly 
altered. The verse loses that brisk and lively air which it 
had with the former pause, and becomes more smooth, gen¬ 
tle, and flowing. 

Eternal sunshine j of the spotless mind, 

Each prayer accepted, | and each wish resign’d. 

When the pause follows the 6th syllable, the tenor of the 
music becomes solemn and grave. The verse marches now 
with a more slow and measured pace than in either of the 
two former cases. 

The wrath of Peleus’ son, | the direful spring 
Of all the Grecian woes, | O goddess sing ! 

The grave cadence becomes still more sensible, when the 
pause follows the 7th syllable. This kind of verse occurs 
less frequently than either of the others ; but it has a happy 
effect in diversifying the melody of long poems. 


What other circumstance is there in the construction of our verse ; and of 
this what is remarked 7 Where may it fall; and what is its effect 7 What 
is remarked of this pause when it falls after the 4th syllable; and what 
illustration is given 7 What is said of it when it falls after the 5th sylla¬ 
ble ; and what is the illustration 'l What is observed of the pause when 
it follows the 6th syllable ; and what illustration follows 7 When does 
the grave cadence become still more sensible; of this kind of verse what 
is observed; and what is the example 7 



286 


VERSIFICATION [Lect. 35. 


And in the smooth descriptive | murmur still, 
Long loved, adored ideas, j all adieu. 


We have taken our examples from verses in rhyme ; because 
in these our versification is subjected to the strictest law. 
As blank verse is of a freer kind, and naturally is read with 
less cadence or tone, the pauses in it, and the effect of them, 
are not always so sensible to the ear. It is constructed, how¬ 
ever, entirely upon the same principles with respect to the 
place of the pause, and is a noble, bold, and disencumbered 
mode of versification. It is free from the full close which 
rhyme forces upon the ear at the termination of every 
couplet. Hence it is peculiarly suited to subjects of dignity 
and force. It is more favorable than rhyme to the sublime, 
and the highly pathetic. Rhyme finds a proper place in the 
middle regions of poetry ; and blank verse in the highest. 

The present form of our English heroic rhyme in couplets, 
is a modern species of versification. The measure generally 
used in the days of Queen Elizabeth and James I., was the 
stanza of eight lines. Waller was the first who gave the 
fashion to couplets ; and Dryden established the usage. 
Waller harmonized our sense, and Dryden carried it to per¬ 
fection. The versification of Pope is peculiar. It is flow¬ 
ing and smooth, correct and labored, in the highest degree. 
He has totally thrown aside the triplets, which are so common 
in Dryden and the older poets. As to ease and variety, Dry¬ 
den excels Pope. He makes his couplets to run into one 
another, and has somewhat the freedom of blank verse. 


Whence have we taken our examples ; why; and of blank verse what 
is remarked 7 From what it free ; to what is it suited ; and for what 
favorable 7 What is observed of the present form of our heroic rhyme; 
and when was the stanza of eight lines used 7 Of Waller, Dryden, and 
Pope, what is remarked ; and how do the two latter compare 7 


ANALYSIS. 


Poetry. 

1. The definition of poetry. 

2. Its origin and antiquity. 


A. Illustrated. 

3. The different kinds undis- 


B. The accent. 

6. The caesural pause. 


A. Contrasted with ancient. 


A. Its effect when differently 


placed. 


tinguished. 


7. Blank verse. 

8. The introduction of couplets 


4. Its early characteristics. 

5. English versification. 






LECTURE XXXVI. 

PASTORAL POETRY—LYRIC POETRY. 


Having, in ihe last lecture, given an account of the rise 
and progress of poetry, and made some observations on the 
nature of English versification, we proceed to treat of the 
chief kinds of poetical composition, and of the critical rules 
that relate to them. We shall first consider pastoral poetry. 

It has been a prevailing opinion among authors, that, 
because the life which mankind at first led was rural, there¬ 
fore their first poetry was pastoral, or employed on the cele¬ 
bration of rural scenes and objects. That it would borrow 
many of its images and allusions from those natural objects 
with which men were best acquainted, there can be no doubt; 
but the calm and tranquil scenes of rural felicity were, by 
no means, the first objects which inspired that strain of 
composition, which we now call poetry. It was inspired in 
the first periods of every nation, by events and objects which 
roused men’s passions ; or, at least, awakened their wonder 
and admiration. The actions of their gods and heroes, their 
own exploits in war, the successes or misfortunes of their 
countrymen and friends, furnished the first themes to the 
bards of every country. It was not till men had begun to 
assemble in great cities, and the bustle of courts and large 
societies was known, that pastoral poetry assumed its pre¬ 
sent form. Men then began to look back upon the more 
simple and innocent life which their forefathers had led, 
or which, at least, they fancied them to have led: they 
looked back upon it with pleasure, and in those rural 
scenes and pastoral occupations, supposing a degree of feli¬ 
city to take place, superior to what they now enjoyed, con¬ 
ceived the idea of celebrating it in poetry. In the court of 
king Ptolemy, Theocritus wrote the first pastorals with 
which we are acquainted; and in the court of Augustus, 
Virgil imitated him. 

What was done in the last lecture ; and to what do we now proceed 1 
Of pastoral poetry, what opinion has prevailed; and of this opinion what 
does our author remark 1 By what was it inspired ; and what furnished 
the first fnemes to the bards of every country 'l It was not till when that 
pastoral poetry assumed its present form; what did men then begin to do; 
and what followed I Who wrote the first pastorals; where ; and bv whom 
was he imitated; and where ? 



288 PASTORAL POETRY. [Lect. 36 

The pastoral is a natural and very agreeable form of poetic 
composition. It recalls to our imagination those gay scenes 
and pleasing views of nature, which are generally the de¬ 
light of our childhood and youth; and to which, in more 
advanced years, the greater part of men recur with pleasure. 
It exhibits to us a life, with which we are accustomed to 
associate the ideas of peace, of leisure, and of innocence. 
It transports us into the calm elysian regions. At the same 
time, no subject seems to be more favorable to poetry. 
Amidst rural objects, nature presents, on all hands, the finest 
field for description; and nothing appears to flow more 
readily into poetical numbers, than rivers and mountains, 
meadows and hills, flocks and trees, and shepherds void of 
care. Hence this species of poetry has, at all times, allured 
many readers, and excited many writers. 

The pastoral poet must form to himself the idea of a rural 
state, such as in certain periods of society may have actually 
taken place, where there was ease, equality, and innocence— 
where shepherds were gay and agreeable, without being 
learned or refined; and plain and artless, without being 
gross and wretched. The great charm of pastoral poetry 
arises from the view which it exhibits of the tranquillity and 
happiness of rural life. This pleasing illusion, therefore, 
the poet must carefully maintain. He must display to us all 
that is agreeable in that state, but hide whatever is displeas¬ 
ing. Distresses, indeed, and anxieties, he may attribute to it; 
for it would be altogether unnatural to suppose any condition 
of human life to be without them ; but they must be of such 
a nature, as not to shock the fancy with any thing peculiarly 
disgusting in the pastoral life. In short, the pastoral poet 
should be careful to exhibit whatever is most pleasing only, 
in the pastoral state. He must paint its simplicity, its tran¬ 
quillity, and its happiness; but conceal its rudeness and 
misery. His pictures must not be those of real life. It is 
sufficient that they resemble it. He has occasion, accord¬ 
ingly, for great art. And to have a proper idea of pastoral 

What does the pastoral recal to our imagination ; and what does it ex¬ 
hibit to us 1 Whence does it transport us ; and how does it appear to be, 
of all subjects, most favorable to poetry 'l Hence what has followed 'l Of 
what state must the pastoral poet form to himself an idea 1 From what 
does the great charm of pastoral poetry arise ; and how must this pleasing 
illusion be kept up 'l What may he attribute to it; why ; but of what 
nature must they be 1 In short, of what should the pastoral poet be care¬ 
ful ; and how is this illustrated 1 To have a proper idea of pastoral poetry 
what must we consider 'l 



Leci.36.] PASTORAL POETRY. 289 

poetry, we must consider, first, the scenery; next, the 
characters ; and, lastly, the subjects which it exhibits. 

The scene, it is evident, must always be laid in the coun¬ 
try ; and much of the poet’s merit depends on describing it 
oeautifully. Virgil is, in this respect, excelled by Theocri 
tus, whose descriptions of natural beauties are richer and 
more picturesque than the other. In every pastoral, a rural 
prospect should be drawn with distinctness. It is insipid to 
have unmeaning groups of roses and violets, of birds, and 
breezes, and brooks. A good poet should give us such a 
landscape as a painter could copy. His objects must be 
particularized; the stream, the rock, or the tree, must each 
of them stand forth, so as to make a figure in the imagina¬ 
tion, and to give us a pleasing conception of the place where 
we are. In his allusions to natural objects, too, as well as 
in professed descriptions of scenery, the poet should study 
clearness and variety. He must diversify his face of nature, 
by presenting to us new images ; or otherwise, he will soon 
become insipid. It is also incumbent on him to suit the 
scenery to the subject of the pastoral; and, according as it is 
of a gay or melancholy kind, to exhibit nature under such 
forms as may correspond with the emotions or sentiments 
which he describes. Thus Virgil, when he gives the 
lamentation of a despairing lover, communicates a gloomv 
sadness to the scene. 

Tantum inter densas, umbrosa cacumina. fagos 

Assidue veniebat; ibi hac incondita solus 

Montibus et Sylvis studio jactabat inani. 

Mid shades of thickest beach he pin’d alone, 

To the wild woods and mountains made his moan; 

Still day by day, in incoherent strains, 

’Twas all he could, despairing told his pains. War ton. 

With regard to the characters m pastorals, it is not suffi¬ 
cient that they are persons who reside constantly in the 
couhtry. Courtiers and citizens, who resort occasionally 
to retirement, would not figure well in pastorals. The per 


Where must the scene be laid; what follows; and how do Virgil and 
Theocritus, in this respect, compare 'l In every pastoral what should be 
done; and why 1 What should a good poet do; and how is this illus¬ 
trated I What is remarked of allusions to natural objects; and how is 
this, also, illustrated 'l What is also incumbent on him ; and what follows 1 
What illustration of this remark is given from Virgil 1 With regard to 
characters in pastorals, what is not sufficient I Who woidd npt figure 
well in pastorals; and why 1 


25 



290 PASTORAL POETRY. [Lect. 36 

sons in such poems must be actual shepherds, and wholly 
engaged in rural occupations. The shepherd must be plain 
and unaffected, without being dull or insipid. He may have 
good sense and reflection; he may have sprightliness and 
vivacity; he may have very tender and delicate feelings ; 
since these are, more or less, the portion of man in all ranks 
of life; and since, doubtless, there was much genius in the 
world, before there were learning or arts to refine it. But 
then he should never deal in general reflections, or in con¬ 
ceits, for these are consequences of refinement. When 
Aminta, in Tasso, is disentangling his mistress’s hair from 
the tree to which a savage had bound it, he is represented as 
saying: 4 Cruel tree!. how couldst thou injure that lovely 
hair which did thee so much honor ? Thy rugged trunk was 
not worthy of such lovely knots. What advantage have the 
servants of love, if those precious chains are common to 
them, and to the trees.’ Strained and forced sentiments like 
these, suit not the words. The language of rural person¬ 
ages is that of plain good sense, and natural feeling. Hence 
the charm of the following lines in Virgil: 

Sepibus in nostris parvam te roscida mala 
(Dux ego vester eram) vidi cum matre legentem • 

Alter ab undecimo turn me jam ceperat annus, 

Jam fragiles pateram a terra contingere ramoa. 

CJt vidi, ut perii, ut me malus abstulit error! 

Once with your mother to our field you came 
For dewy apples; thence I date my flame ; 

The choicest fruit I pointed to your view, 

Though young, my raptur’d soul was fix’d on you ; 

The boughs I just could reach with little arms; 

But then, even then, could feel thy powerful charms. 

O, how I gaz’d, in pleasing transport tost: 

How glow’d my heart, in sweet delusion lost I Warton. 

With respect to the subject of pastorals, there is a nicety 
which is absolutely necessary. For it is not enough, that 
the poets should give us shepherds discoursing together. 
Every good poem must have a topic that should, in some way, 
be interesting. In this lies the difficulty of pastoral poetry. 
The active scenes of country life are too barren of incidents. 

What qualities may the shepherd possess; and for what reason 'l But 
in what should he never deal; why: and what illustration is given from 
Tasso'? What is the language of rural personages; and of this what 
illustration is given from Virgil % With respect to the subjects of pasto¬ 
rals, what is remarked; and why 'l Every good poem must have what : 
and of this what is remarked 1 Of the active scenes of eountry life, and 
of the condition of the shepherd, what is observed ; and hence what has 
followed 'l 



Lect. 36.] PASTORAL POETRY. 29i 

The condition of a shepherd has few things in it that produce 
curiosity and surprise. Hence the generality of pastorals 
are common place, and unusually insipid. Yet this insipi¬ 
dity is not to be ascribed altogether to the barrenness of the 
topics. It is, in a great measure, the fault of the poet; for 
human passions are much the same in every situation and 
rank of life. And what an infinite variety of objects within 
the rural sphere do the passions present! The various ad¬ 
ventures which give occasion to those engaged in country 
life to display their disposition and temper ; the scenes of 
domestic felicity or disquiet; the attachment of friends and 
brothers ; the rivalship and competition of lovers; the un¬ 
expected success or misfortunes of families, might give 
occasion to many pleasing and tender incidents ; and were 
more of the narrative and sentimental intermixed Avith the 
descriptive in this kind of poetry, it would become much 
more interesting to the bulk of readers, than it now is. 

The two great fathers of pastoral poetry are Theocritus 
and Virgil. Theocritus was a Sicilian, and has laid the 
scene of his pastorals in that country. For the simplicity 
of his sentiments, the harmony of his numbers, and the 
richness of his scenery, he is highly distinguished. He is 
the original of which Virgil is the imitator : for most of 
Virgil’s highest beauties are copied from Theocritus. He 
must be allowed, however, to have imitated him with great 
judgment, and, in some respects, to have improved upon 
him. For Theocritus sometimes descends into ideas that 
are gross and mean, and makes his shepherds abusive and 
immodest; while Virgil is free from offensive rusticity, and, 
at the same time, preserves the character of pastoral sim¬ 
plicity. 

The modern writers of pastorals have, in general, imi¬ 
tated Theocritus and Virgil. Sannazarius, however, a Latin 
poet, in the age of Leo X., attempted a bold innovation, by 
composing piscatory eclogues, and changing the scene from 
woods to the sea, and from the life of shepherds to that of 


Yet, to what is this insipidity not to be ascribed; and why is it the fault 
of the poet 'l What objects within the rural sphere do the passions pre¬ 
sent 1 What would render this kind of poetry still more interesting 1 
Who are the fathers of pastoral poetry ; and what is observed of the former 1 
How does Virgil compare with him; and what is farther remarked on this 
subject 'l What is remarked of the modern writers of pastorals 1 Who, 
however, attempted a bold innovation; what was it; and why did it not 
succeed 1 



Wl PASTORAL POETRY. [Lect. 36. 

fishermen. But his attempt was unhappy, and he has had 
no imitators. The toilsome life of the fisherman had 
nothing* agreeable to present to the imagination. Fish and 
marine productions have nothing poetical in them. Of all 
the moderns, Gesner, a poet of Switzerland, has been the 
most happy in his pastoral compositions. He has introduced 
in his Idyls many new ideas. His scenery is striking, and 
his descriptions are lively. He presents pastoral life to us, 
with all the embellishments of which it is susceptible * but 
without any excess of refinement. But what forms the chief 
merit of his poetry is, he writes to the heart; and has en 
riched the subject of Idyls with incidents which give rise to 
much tender sentiment. Scenes of domestic felicity are 
beautifully painted. The mutual affection of husbands and 
wives, of parents and children, of brothers and sisters, as 
well as of lovers, are displayed in a touching manner. 

Neither the pastorals of Mr. Pope, nor those of Mr. 
Philips, are a great honor to English poetry. Those of Mr. 
Pope were composed in his youth ; which may be an apology 
for other faults, but cannot well excuse the barrenness that 
appears in them. They are written, it is true, in remark¬ 
ably smooth and flowing numbers, but this is their principal 
merit; for there is scarcely a thought or a description in 
them, which is not a repetition of what is to be found in 
Virgil, and all other poets who write of rural themes. 
Philips attempted to be more simple and natural than Pope ; 
but he wanted genius to support the attempt. His topics, 
like those of Pope, are beaten; and instead of being natural 
and simple, he is insipid and flat. The Shepherd’s Week 
of Mr. Gay was designed to ridicule Philips; and is an 
ingenious burlesque of pastoral writing, when it copies, too, 
completely, the manners of clowns and rustics. Mr. Shen- 
stone’s pastoral ballad, is one of the most elegant poems in 
the English language. 

The Gentle Shepherd of Allan Ramsay, is a pastoral 
composition which must not be omitted. For this admirable 
poem it is, perhaps, a disadvantage, that it is written in the 


Of Gesner, what is observed; and what is the character of his Idyla? 
But what is it that forms the chief merit of his poetry; and how is this 
illustrated 1 What is said of Mr. Pope’s, and of Mr. Philips’s pastorals; 
and how is this remark fully illustrated '? Of Mr. Gay’s Shepherd’s Week, 
and of Mr. Shenstone’s pastoral ballad, what is observed 1 What is said 
of the Gentle Shepherd of Allan Ramsay; and to this poem what axe 
disadvantages 'l But what are its excellences 1 



Lect. 36.] LYRIC POETRY. 293 

old rustic dialect of Scotland, which must soon be obsolete : 
and it is a farther disadvantage to it, that it is formed so 
accurately on the rural manners of Scotland, that none hut 
a native of that country can fully understand or relish it. 
But of natural description it is full; and it excels in tender¬ 
ness of sentiment. The characters are skilfully drawn; 
the incidents are affecting, and the scenery and manners are 
lively and correct. 

We proceed next to treat of lyric poetry, or the ode— a 
species of poetical composition which possesses much dig¬ 
nity, and in which many writers have distinguished them¬ 
selves in every age. Ode is, in Greek, equivalent to song 
or hymn ; and lyric poetry implies, that the verses are accom¬ 
panied with a lyre, or with a musical instrument. The 
ode retains its first and most ancient form ; and sentiments 
of some kind or other constitute its subject. It recites not 
actions ; but its spirit, and the manner of its execution, give 
it its chief value. It admits of a bolder and more passionate 
strain, than is allowed in simple recitations. Hence the 
enthusiasm that belongs to it. Hence, too, that neglect of 
regularity, and that disorder it is supposed to admit. 

There are four denominations under which all odes may 
be classed. First, hymns addressed to the Supreme Being, 
and relating to religious subjects. Of this nature are the^ 
Psalms of David, which exhibit to us this species of lyric 
poetry, in its highest degree of perfection. Secondly, he¬ 
roic odes, which concern the celebration of heroes and great 
actions. Of this kind are the odes of Pindar; and the splendid 
Marco Bozzaris of F. G. Halleck. Thirdly, moral and phi¬ 
losophical odes, which refer-chiefly to virtue, friendship, and 
humanity. Of this kind are many of the odes of Horace, 
and several of our best modern lyrics ; among which are, 

‘ The burial of Sir John Moore,’ by the Rev. Mr. Wolf, and 
Halleck’s elegiac, on the death of Dr. J. R. Drake—both 
most finished productions. Fourthly, festive and amorous 
odes, which are calculated for pleasure and amusement. 
Of this nature are the odes of Anacreon, and many of those 
of Thomas Moore. 


To treat of what do we next proceed; and of it what is remarked 1 To what 
is ode equivalent; and what does it signify 'l What does the ode retain ; 
what constitute its subject; and what give it its chief value 'l Of what 
does it admit; and hence what follows 1 Under how many denominations 
may all odes be classed • and what are instances and examples of each 1 

35* 



294 LYRIC POETRY. [Lect. 36. 

As enthusiasm is considered the characteristic of the ode, it 
has too much degenerated into licentiousness ; and this spe¬ 
cies of writing has, above all others, been infected with the 
want of order, method, and connection. The poet is imme¬ 
diately out of sight. He is so abrupt and eccentric, so 
irregular and obscure, that we cannot partake of his raptures. 
It is not, indeed, necessary, that the structure of the ode 
should be so perfectly exact and formal as a didactic poem. 
But in every work of genius there ought to be a whole, and 
this whole should consist of parts. These parts, too, should 
have a bond of connection. In the ode, the transitions from 
thought to thought may be brisk and rapid, but the connection 
of ideas should be preserved ; and the author should think, 
and not rave. 

Pindar, the great father of lyric poetry, has led his imi¬ 
tators into wildness and enthusiastic fancy. They imitate 
his disorder, without catching his spirit. In Horace every 
thing is correct, harmonious, and happy. His elevation is 
moderate and not rapturous. Grace and elegance are his 
characteristics. He supports a moral sentiment with dignity, 
touches a gay one with felicity, and has the art to trifle most 
agreeably. His language, too, is always very fortunate. 
Buchanan’s Ode to the First of May, is a beautiful produc¬ 
tion. 

In the French, the odes of Jean Baptiste Rousseau, are 
justly celebrated for great beauty of sentiment and expression. 
In our own language, Dryden’s ode on St. Cecilia is well 
known. Mr. Gray, in some of his odes, is eminent for ten¬ 
derness and sublimity; and in the more recent works of 
Burns and Campbell, there are found several very beautiful 
lyric poems. 

As enthusiasm is considered the characteristic of the ode, what has fol¬ 
lowed ; and how is this illustrated 'l What is not, indeed, necessary; but 
what remarks follow I What is observed of Pindar, and of his imitators 1 
What is remarked of Horace; and what other beautiful poem is men¬ 
tioned 'l Of odes in the French and the English languages, what is 
observed; and what are examples I 


ANALYSIS. 


"i. Pastoral poetry. 

A. Its origin and its nature. 

B. The state of pastoral society. 

C. The scene. 

D. The characters, 

a. Illustrated. 

E. The subjects. 

F. Ancient pastorals. 


G. Modern pastorals, 
a. Their relative merits. 

2. Lyric poetry. 

A. The nature of the ode. 

a. Different kinds of odes. 

b. Its enthusiasm. 

c. Ancient odes. 

d. Modern odes. 






LECTURE XXXVII. 

DIDACTIC POETRY—DESCRIPTIVE POETRY 


Having treated of pastoral and lyric poetry, we proceed 
next to didactic ; the express intention of which is to convey 
instruction and knowledge. A didactic poem differs in 
form only, from a philosophical, a moral, or a critical treatise 
in prose. At the same time, by means of its form, it has 
several advantages. By the charm of versification and 
numbers, it renders instruction more agreeable; by the 
descriptions, episodes, and other embellishments, which it 
may interweave, it detains and engages the fancy ; it fixes, 
also, useful circumstances more deeply in the memory. 

A didactic poem may be executed in different ways. The 
poet may choose some instructive subject, and he may treat 
it regularly, and in form ; or without intending a great or 
regular work, he may only inveigh against particular vices, 
or make some moral observations on human life and charac¬ 
ters. But the highest species of didactic composition, is a 
formal treatise on some philosophical or grave subject. Of 
this nature we have several, both ancient and modern, of 
great merit and character: such as Virgil’s Georgies, Pope’s 
Essay on Criticism, Akenside’s Pleasures of the Imagination, 
Armstrong on Health, Young’s Night Thoughts, Gold¬ 
smith's Traveller and his Deserted Village, Campbell’s Plea¬ 
sures of Hope, Horace’s, Vida’s, andBoileau’s Art of Poetry 

In all such works, as instruction is the professed object, 
the fundamental merit consists in sound thought, just prin¬ 
ciples, clear and apt illustrations. It is necessary, however, 
that the poet enliven his lessons by figures, and incidents, 
and poetical painting. Virgil, in his Georgies, presents us 
here with a perfect model. He has the art of raising and 


To what kind of poetry do we now proceed; and what is the intention 
of it T From what does a didactic poem differ in form only; and at the 
same time, by means of its form, what advantages has it 1 In what differ¬ 
ent ways may a didactic poem be executed But what is the highest spe¬ 
cies of didactic composition; and of this nature, what examples have we ? 
In all such works, in what does the fundamental merit consist; but what, 
however, is necessary I Of this, where have we a perfect model; and 
what art does he possess 1 



296 DIDACTIC POETRY. [Lect. 37. 

beautifying 1 the most trivial circumstances in rural life. 
When he is to say that the labor of the farmer must begin in 
spring, he expresses h’naself in the following manner: 

Vere novo, gelidus canis cum montibus humor 
Liquitur, et Zephyro putris se gleba resolvit; 

Depresso incipiat jam turn mihi Taurus aratro 
Ingemere, et sulco attritus splendescere vomer. 

While yet the spring is young, while earth unbinds 
Her frozen bosom to the western winds; 

While mountain snows dissolve against the sun, 

And streams yet new from precipices run; 

Even in this early dawning of the year, 

Produce the plough, and yoke the sturdy steer, 

And goad him till he groans beneath his toil, 

Till the bright share is buried in the soil. Dryden. 

And instead of telling his husbandman in plain language, 
that his crops will fail through bad management, his lan¬ 
guage is, 

Heu, magnum aitenus frustra spectabis acervum, 

Concussaque famem in si 1 vis solabere quercu. 

On others’ crops you may with envy look, 

And shake for food the long abandoned oak. Dryden. 

In all didactic works, such a method and order are requi¬ 
site, as shall exhibit clearly a connected train of instruction. 
With regard to episodes and embellishments, the writers of 
didactic poetry may indulge in great liberties. For in a 
poetical performance, a continued series of instruction, with¬ 
out entertaining embellishments, would fatigue, and even 
disgust. The great art of rendering a didactic poem inter¬ 
esting, is to relieve and amuse the reader, by connecting 
some agreeable episodes with the principal subject. These 
are always the parts of the work which are best known, and 
which contribute most to support the reputation of the poet. 
The digressions in the Georgies of Virgil are all admirable. 
The happiness of a country life, the fable of Aristeus, and 
the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, cannot be praised too 
highly. 

A didactic poet ought, also, to exert his skill in connecting 
his episodes happily with his subjects. Virgil is dis- 


To illustrate this remark, what examples are given'? In all didactic 
works, what are requisite ; but with regard to what may they indulge in 
great liberties ; and why I What is the great art of rendering a didactic 
poem interesting; and of these, what is observed 1 From Virgil what 
examples are mentioned 1 In what ought a didactic poet also to exert his 
skill; and in this, also, who is distinguished 1 



Lect. 37.] DIDACTIC POETRY. 297 

tinguished for his address in this point also. After seeming 
to have left his husbandmen, he again returns to them very 
naturally by laying hold of some rural circumstance, to 
terminate his digression. Thus, having spoken of the 
battle of Pharsalia, he subjoins immediately, with much art: 

Scilicet et tempus veniet, cum finibus illis 
Agricola, incurvo terram molitu? aratro, 

Exesa inveniet scabra rubigine pila; 

Aut gravibus rastris galeas pulsabit inanes, 

Grandiaque effossis mirabitur ossa sepulchris. 

Then, after length of time, the lab’ring swame 
Who turn the turf of these unhappy plains, 

Shall rusty arms from the plough’d furrows take, 

And over empty helmets pass the rake; 

Amus’d at antique titles on the stones, 

And mighty relics of gigantic bones. Dryden. 

In our own language, as didactic writers, Dr. Akenside, 
Dr. Armstrong, Dr. Young, Dr. Goldsmith, and Mr. Camp¬ 
bell, are all celebrated. In his Pleasures of the Imagina¬ 
tion, Dr. Akenside has attempted the most rich and poetical 
form of didactic writing; and though, in the execution of 
the whole he is not equal, he has, in several parts, succeeded 
happily, and displayed much genius. Dr. Armstrong, in 
his Art of Preserving Health, has not aimed at so high a 
strain as the other. But he is more equal; and maintains, 
throughout, a chaste and correct elegance. 

As a moral and didactic writer, Dr. Young is very emi¬ 
nent. In all his works the marks of strong genius appear. 
His Universal Passion possesses the full merit of that ani¬ 
mated conciseness of style, and lively description of charao 
ters, which are particularly requisite in didactic compositions 
Though his wit may often be thought too sparkling, and his 
sentences too pointed, yet the vivacity of his fancy is so 
great, as to entertain every reader. In his Night Thoughts 
there is great energy of expression, several pathetic passages, 
many happy images, and many pious reflections. But it 
must be allowed, that he is sometimes overstrained and 
tujgid, harsh and obscure. 


To illustrate this remark, what passion is given 1 In our language, who 
are celebrated as didactic writers; and of Dr. Akenside’s Pleasures of 
the Imagination, and Dr. Armstrong’s Art of Preserving Health, what is 
remarked I As a moral and didactic writer, what is observed of Dr. 
Young ? Of his Universal Passion, and of his Night Thoughts, what is 
remarked ; but what must be allowed 'l „ 



208 DIDACTIC POETRY. [Lect. 37 

In praise of the Traveller, and of the Deserted Village, 
of Dr. Goldsmith, and of the Pleasures of Hope, of Camp¬ 
bell, too much can scarcely he said. They are in every 
one’s hands—live in every one’s memory—are felt in every 
one’s heart; and are the daily delight of thousands. Their 
merits are so universally acknowledged, that the opinion of 
the critic and the commentator is no longer asked upon 
Jiem. ‘ Song,’ says an elegant writer, ‘ is but the eloquence 
of truth;’ and of this eloquence are these poems made up— 
eloquence that will ever he listened to—truth that it is im¬ 
possible to doubt. 

Of didactic poetry, satires and epistles run into the most 
familiar style. It is probable, that the satire is a relic of 
the ancient comedy, the grossness of which was corrected 
by Ennius and Lucilius. It was Horace, however, who 
brought it to the perfection in which we now behold it. As 
it professes to have in view the reformation of manners, vice 
and vicious characters are its objects. It has been carried 
on in three different ways, by Horace, Juvenal, and Perseus. 
The satires of Horace have not much elevation. They rise 
but little above measured prose. Ease and grace are his 
characteristics ; and he glances rather at the follies and 
weaknesses of mankind, than at their vices. He reproves 
with a smiling aspect; and while he moralizes like a sound 
philosopher, he discovers the politeness of a courtier. Ju¬ 
venal is more declamatory and serious ; and has greater 
strength and fire. Perseus is distinguished for the noble¬ 
ness and sublimity of his morality. 

Poetical epistles, when employed on moral and critical 
topics, have a resemblance, in the strain of their poetry, to 
satires. But in the epistolary form, many other subjects 
may be treated. Love poetry, or elegiac, may, for example, 
he carried on in this manner. The ethical epistles of Pope 
are a model; and he shows in them the strength of his 
genius. Here he had a full opportunity for displaying his 


What is observed of the Traveller and the Deserted Village of Gold¬ 
smith, and of the Pleasures of Hope of Campbell; and how is this remark 
fully illustrated 'l What is the most familiar style of didactic poetry ; and 
of this what is remarked 1 Who perfected it; and what remarks follow 'l 
What is said of the satires of Horace; and of Juvenal and Perseus, also,, 
what is remarked 'l When have poetical epistles a resemblance to satires , 
and what remarks follow 'l What is observed of the ethical epistles of Mr 
Pope 1 Here, to do what had he an opportunity ; and what is remarked 
of liis imitations of Horace!? 



Lect. 37.] DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 209 

judgment and wit, his concise and happy expression, 
together with the harmony of his numbers. His imitations 
of Horace are so happy, that it is difficult to say whether 
the original or the copy is the most to be admired. 

We proceed next to treat of descriptive poetry, in which 
the highest exertions of genius may be displayed. In 
general, indeed, description is introduced as an embellish¬ 
ment, and constitutes not, properly, any particular species 
or mode of composition. It is the great test of a poet’s 
imagination, and never fails to distinguish the original from 
the second-rate genius. A writer of an inferior class, sees 
nothing new or peculiar in the object he would paint; his 
conceptions of it are loose and vague; and his expressions, 
feeble and general. A true poet, on the contrary, places an 
object before our eyes. He catches the distinguishing fea¬ 
tures of it; gives it the color of life and reality ; and places 
it in such a light that a painter might copy after him. 

The great art of picturesque description lies in the selection 
of circumstances. In the first place, these should never be 
vulgar or common ; but as far as possible, new and original, 
that they may catch the fancy, and attract the attention. In 
the next place, they ought to be such as particularize the 
object described, and mark it strongly ; for all distinct ideas 
are formed upon particulars. In the third place, there should 
be a uniformity in the circumstances which are selected. In 
describing a great object, all the circumstances brought for¬ 
ward should tend to aggrandize it; and in exhibiting a gay 
object, all the circumstances should contribute to increase 
its beauty. In the last place, the circumstances in descrip¬ 
tion should be expressed with conciseness and simplicity; 
for, when they are either too much exaggerated, or too long 
dwelt upon and extended, they never fail to enfeeble the 
impression that is designed to be made. 

The largest and fullest descriptive performance, in any 
language, is the Seasons of Thomson—a work which 


To what do we now proceed; and of it what remark follows 'l Of what 
is it the great test; what does it always distinguish ; and how is this illus¬ 
trated 1 In what does the great art of picturesque description lie; and in 
the first place, of these what is remarked; and why % In the next place, 
of what kind should these be; and why 1 In the third place, what should 
there be in the circumstances selected; and how is this illustrated 'l In 
the last place, why should the circumstances be expressed with conciseness 
and simplicity 'l What is the largest descriptive performance in any lan¬ 
guage ; and what is said of it ? 



300 DESCRIPTIVE POETRY [Lect. 3? 

possesses >ery uncommon merit. Though the style, in the 
midst of much splendor and strength, is sometimes harsh 
and indistinct; yet, notwithstanding this defect, he is a strong 
and beautiful describer; for he possessed a feeling heart, 
and a warm imagination. He had studied nature with great 
care; was enamored of her beauties; and had the happy 
talent of painting them like a master. Several instances of 
most beautiful description might be selected from him, such 
as the shower in Spring, the morning in Summer, and the 
man perishing in the snow in Winter. But, at present, we 
shall produce a passage of another kind, to show the force 
of a single well chosen circumstance, to heighten a descrip¬ 
tion. In his Summer, relating the effect of heat in the torrid 
zone, he is led to take notice of the pestilence that destroyed 
the English fleet at Carthagena, under Admiral Vernon. 

-You, gallant Vernon, saw 

The miserable seene ; you pitying saw, 

To infant weakness sunk the warrior’s arm: 

the deep racking pang ; the ghastly form; 

The lip pale quiv’ring ; and the beamless eye 
No more with ardor bright; you heard the groans 
Of agonizing ships from shore to shore; 

Heard nightly plunged, amid the sullen waves, 

The frequent corse.- 

All the circumstances here selected, contribute to aug¬ 
ment this dismal scene. But the last image, containing the 
circumstance of dead bodies being thrown overboard every 
night, is by far the most striking in the picture. 

In genius, Cowper is not equal to Thomson, but he has 
much more taste. His range is neither so wide, nor so 
.ofty, but, as far as it extends, it is peculiarly his own. He 
cannot paint the plague, or the snow-storm, or the earth¬ 
quake, as Thomson has done; but accompany him in his 
‘ winter walk at noon,’ or follow him in his ramble through 
his flower garden, and where is his equal to be found ? His 
pictures of domestic life, too, are inimitable. He does not 
attempt the same variety of scene that Thomson did; but 


Of the style what is remarked; yet what follows; and why 1 What 
is farther remarked of him 'l Whence might several beautiful descriptions 
be selected; but why shall we at present produce a passage of another 
kind 1 What are the circumstances that led to the passage; and what is 
it 'l Of this passage, what is remarked 1 How does Cowper compare 
with Thomson; and what remark follows'? In what does Thomson 
excel him ; but where is he unequalled 1 What does he not attempt; and 
what follows 1 





Liact. 37.] DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 301 

m what he does attempt he is always successful. Though 
the grander features of nature maj 7 - be beyond his grasp, 
yet the meadow and the hay-field, the ripling rill and the 
flower crowned porch, he places before our eyes with 
astonishing accuracy. Sometimes, too, he takes a flight 
beyond his ordinary reach ; and his personification of Win¬ 
ter is powerful, and even sublime : 

Oh Winter ! ruler of the inverted year! 

Thy scatter’d hair, with sleet-like ashes fill’d, 

Thy breath congeal’d upon thy lips, thy cheek 
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, 

A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 

But urged by storms along its slippery way. 

Cowper’s minor poems are full of beauties of the most 
varied kind ; and for pathos and feeling, his lines 4 On 
his Mother’s Picture,’ are absolutely unrivalled. 

Mr. Parnell’s tale of the Hermit, is, throughout the 
whole of it, conspicuous for beautiful descriptive narration. 
The setting forth of the hermit to visit the world, his meet¬ 
ing with a companion, the houses in which they are enter¬ 
tained, of the vain man, the covetous man, and the good man, 
are pieces of highly finished painting. But the richest and 
the most remarkable of all the descriptive poems in the 
English language, are the Allegro and Penseroso of Milton. 
They are the storehouse from whence succeeding poets 
have enriched their descriptions, and are to be considered 
as inimitably fine poems. Take, for instance, the following 
pas-sage from the Penseroso : 

-1 walk unseen 

On the dry smooth-shaven green, 

To behold the wandering moon, 

Riding near her highest noon : 

Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heaven’s wide pathless way, 

And ott, as if her head she bow’d, 

Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 

I hear the far-off curfew sound, 

Over some wide watered shore, 

Swinging slow with solemn roar; 


What may be beyond his grasp; yet what can he place before our eyes 
with astonishing accuracy 'l What, too, does he sometimes do; what in¬ 
stance is given; and what also is said of his minor poems 1 What is said 
of Mr. Parnell’s Tale of the Hermit; and in it, what are pieces of highly 
finished painting 1 Of • Milton’s Allegro and Penseroso, what is remarked; 
and as an illustration of this remark, what passage is given 1 

26 




SO* DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [Lect. 37 

Or, if the air will not permit, 

Some still removed place will fit, 

Where glowing embers through the rociis 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; 

Far from all resort of mirth, 

Save the cricket on the hearth, 

Or the bellman’s drowsy charm, 

To bless the doors from nightly harm s, 

Or let my lamp, at midnignt hour, 

Be seen, in some high lonely tower, 

Exploring Plato to unfold 
What worlds, or what vast regions hold 
Th’ immortal mind, that hath forsook 
Her mansion in his fleshly nook; 

And of those demons that are found 
In fire, in air, flood, or under ground. 

All here is particular, picturesque, expressive, and con¬ 
cise. The picture is presented to the reader in one strong 
point of view; and the impression made is lively and 
interesting. 

Both Homer and Virgil excel in poetical description. In 
the second iEneid, the sacking of Troy is so particularly 
described, that the reader finds himself in the midst of the 
scene. The death of Priam is a master-piece of description. 
Homer’s battles are wonderful, and universally known. 
Ossian, too, paints in strong colors, and is remarkable for 
touching the heart. He thus portrays the ruins of Bal- 
clutha : 4 I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were 
desolate. The fire had resounded within the halls ; and the 
voice of the people is now heard no more. The stream of 
Clutha was removed from its place, by the fall of the 
walls; the thistle shook there its lonely head; the moss 
whistled to the wind. The fox looked out of the window; 
the rank grass waived round his head. Desolate is the 
dwelling of Moina; silence is in the house of her fathers.’ 

Much of the beauty of descriptive poetry depends upon a 
proper choice of epithets. With regard to this, poets are 
too often careless ; and hence the multitude, in constant use, 
that are both unmeaning and redundant. Every epithet 
should add a new idea to the word which it qualifies. To 
observe that water is liquid, and that snow is white, is little 
better than mere tautology. But the propriety and advantage, 


What is said of this passage 1 What two ancient poets excel in poetical 
description; and in the latter what instances are mentioned 'l Of Ossian, 
too, what is remarked; and what illustration follows 1 On what does 
much of the beauty of descriptive poetry depend; and with regard to this, 
what remarks follow ? 



Leot. 37.] DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 303 

of an ingenious selection of epithets, will appear best from 
an example; and the following lines from Milton, afford 
one: 


-Who shall tempt with wand’ring feet 

The dark, unbottomed, infinite abyss, 

And through the palpable obscure, find out 
His uncouth way 7 or spread his airy flight, 
Upborne with indefatigable wings, 

Over the vast abrupt 'I 


It is obvious that the description here is greatly assisted 
by the epithets. The wand’ring feet—the unbottomed 
abyss—the palpable obscure—the uncouth way—the inde¬ 
fatigable wing, are all very happy expressions. 


To illustrate these remarks, what passage is given from Milton; and 
what is observed of it 1 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Didactic poetry. 

A. The manner of its execution. 

a. To be rendered interesting. 

b. Proper order essential. 

c. The episodes to be skilful¬ 

ly connected with the 
main subject. 

B. Didactic writers of eminence. 

a. Akenside—Armstrong. 

b. Young. 

c. Goldsmith and Campbell. 


C. Satires ana poetical epistles. 
2. Descriptive poetry. 

A. The selection of circum¬ 

stances. 

B. Distinguished descriptive 

poets. 

a. Thomson—Cowper. 

b. Parnell—Milton. 

c. Homer—Virgil—Ossian. 

C. The choice of epithets. 









LECTURE XXXVIII. 

THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 


Among the various kinds of poetry which we are, at 
present, examining, that of the Scriptures justly deserves a 
place. Viewing these sacred books in no higher light, than 
as they present to us the most ancient monuments of poetry 
at present extant, they afford a curious object of criticism. 
They display the taste of a remote age and country; and 
exhibit a species of composition, very different from any 
other with which we are acquainted, and at the same time, 
beautiful. Considered as inspired writings, they give rise 
to discussions of another kind. But it is our business, at 
present, to consider them in a critical view ; and it is a source 
of great pleasure, to find the beauty and dignity of the com¬ 
position, adequate to the weight and importance of the mat¬ 
ter. In pursuing this subject, we shall follow Dr. Lowth’s 
learned treatise, on ‘ The Sacred Poetry of the Hebrews.’ 

Few arguments are necessary to show, that among the 
books of the Old Testament, there appears such a diver¬ 
sity in style, as sufficiently discovers, which of them are to 
be considered as poetical, and which as prose compositions. 
While the historical books, and legislative writings of Moses, 
are evidently prosaic in the composition, the book of Job, the 
Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, the Lamentations 
of Jeremiah, a great part of the prophetical writings, and 
several passages scattered through the historical books, 
carry the most plain and distinguishing marks of poetical 
writing. 

Poetry was cultivated among the Hebrews from the ear¬ 
liest times ; but in its general construction, Hebrew poetry 
is peculiar to itself. It consists in dividing every period 
into correspondent, for the most part into equal numbers, 


Among the various kinds of poetry that we are at present examining, 
what deserves a place; and in what view do these sacred books afford = a 
curious object of criticism I What do they display ; and what exhibit ? 
But how is it our business, at present, to consider them ; and what remark 
follows I To show what, are few arguments necessary ; and how is this 
remark illustrated I What is remarked of Hebrew poetry ; and in what 
does it consist I 



Lect. 38.J THE POETRY, &c. 305 

which answer to one another, both in sense and sound. In 
the first member of the period a sentiment is expressed ; and 
in the second member, the same sentiment is amplified, or is 
repeated in different terms, or sometimes contrasted with its 
opposite ; but in such a manner, that the same structure, and 
nearly the same number of words, is preserved. This is the 
general strain of Hebrew poetry ; instances of which occur 
every where in the Old Testament. Thus, in the XCYIth 
Psalm : ‘ Sing unto the Lord a new song—sing unto the 
Lord all the earth. Sing unto the Lord, and bless his name— 
show forth his salvation from day to day. Declare his glory 
among the heathen—his wonders among all the people. 
For the Lora is great, and greatly to be praised—he is to be 
feared above all the gods. Honor and majesty are before 
him—strength and beauty are in his sanctuary.’ It is 
owing, in a great measure, to this form of composition, that 
our version, though in prose, retains so much of a poetical 
cast; for the version being strictly word for word after the 
original, the form and order of the original sentences are 
still preserved. 

This form of poetical composition among the Hebrews, is 
clearly to be deduced from the manner in which their sacred 
hymns were sung. They were accompanied with music, 
and they were performed by choirs or bands of singers and 
musicians, who answered alternately to each other. When, 
for instance, one band began the hymn thus : ‘ The Lord 
reigneth, let the earth rejoicethe chorus, or semi-chorus, 
took up the corresponding versicle ; 4 Let the multitude of 
the isles be glad thereof.’— 4 Clouds and darkness are round 
about him,’ sung the one; the other replied, 4 Judgment and 
righteousness are the habitation of his throne.’ And in this 
manner their poetry, when set to music, naturally divided 
itself into a succession of strophes and antistrophes, corres¬ 
pondent to each other ; whence, it is probable, the responsory, 
in the public religious service of some Christian churches, 
derived its origin. 

But independent of its peculiar mode of construction, the 


How is this illustrated; and what instance is given'? To this form what 
is owing ; and why 7 From what is this form of composition among the 
Hebrews to be deduced ; and by what were they accompanied 7 What in¬ 
stances are given to illustrate this remark 7 How did their poetry naturally 
divide itself; and from this, what, probably, derived its origin 7 But in¬ 
dependent of its mode of construction, by what is the Hebrew poetry 
distinguished; and what are two of its most remarkable characters 7 



306 . THE POETRY OF [Lect. 38. 

sacred poetry is distinguished by the highest beauties oi 
strong, concise, bold, and figurative expression. Conciseness 
and strength are two of its most remarkable characters. 
We might, indeed, at first imagine, that the practice of the 
Hebrew poets, of always amplifying the same thought by 
repetition or contrast, might tend to enfeeble their style. 
But this effect is not produced. Their sentences are always 
short; and there are no superfluous words. They never 
dwell long upon the same thought. To their conciseness of 
expression their poetry is indebted for much of its sublimity ; 
and all writers who attempt the sublime, might profit much 
by imitating, in this respect, the style of the Old Testament. 

No writings whatever abound so much with bold and ani¬ 
mated figures, as the sacred books. But, through our early 
familiarity with the Scriptures, we are apt to overlook beau¬ 
ties in them, which, in any other book, would attract par¬ 
ticular attention. Metaphors, comparisons, allegories, and 
personifications, occur there very frequently. In order to 
do justice to these, however, it is necessary that we trans¬ 
port ourselves, as much as possible, into the land of Judea ; 
and place before our eyes that scenery, and those objects, 
with which the Hebrew writers were conversant. Some 
attention of this kind is requisite, in order to relish the 
writings of any poet of a foreign country, and a different 
age; for the imagery of every good poet is copied from 
nature, and from real life. 

Natural objects are common, in some degree, to the He¬ 
brews with the poets of all ages and countries. Light and 
darkness, trees and flowers, suggest to them many beautiful 
figures. But, in order to enjoy their figures of this kind, 
we must remember, that several of them arise from the par¬ 
ticular circumstances of the land of Judea. During the 
summer months, little or no rain falls throughout all that, 
region. While the heat continued, the country was intolera¬ 
bly parched: want of water was a great distress; and a 


What might we at first imagine; but how does it appear that this effect 
is not produced ? To what is their poetry indebted for much of its sub¬ 
limity ; and what remark follows ? With what figures do the sacred books 
abound; but from our early familiarity with them, what results'? What 
figures occur there very frequently; but in order to do justice to them, 
what is necessary ? Why is some attention of this kind requisite, to relish 
the writings of any foreign poet ? What are common to the Hebrews, 
with the poets of other countries ; and what illustration follows ? But in 
order to enjoy their figures of this kind, what must we remember; and 
how is this remark fully illustrated ? 



Lect. 38.] THE HEBREWS. 307 

plentiful shower falling, or a rivulet breaking forth, altered 
the whole face of nature, and introduced much higher ideas 
of refreshment and pleasure, than the same causes can possi¬ 
bly suggest to us. Hence to represent distress, such frequent 
allusions were made by them to ‘ a dry and thirsty land, 
where no water is;’ and hence to describe a change from 
distress to prosperity, their metaphors are founded on the 
falling of showers, and the bursting out of springs in the 
desert. Thus in Isaiah: ‘ The wilderness and solitary 
place shall be glad, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom 
as the rose. For in the wilderness shall waters break out, 
and streams in the desert; and the parched ground shall be¬ 
come a pool; and the thirsty land, springs of water; in the 
habitations of dragons there shall be grass, with rushes and 
reeds.’ 

Of the mountains of Judea, the two most remarkable were 
Lebanon and Carmel—the former noted for its height, and 
the woods of lofty cedars that covered it; the latter, for its 
beauty and fertility, and the richness of its vines and olives. 
Hence, with the greatest propriety, Lebanon is employed as 
an image of whatever is great, strong, or magnificent; 
Carmel, of what is smiling and beautiful. ‘ The glory of 
Lebanon,’ says Isaiah, ‘ shall be given to it, and the ex¬ 
cellency of Carmel.’ Lebanon is often put metaphorically 
for the temple, or for the whole state or people of Israel; 
Carmel, for the blessings of peace and prosperity. 4 His 
countenance is as Lebanon,’ says Solomon, speaking of the 
dignity of man’s appearance ; but when he describes female 
beauty, ‘ Thine head is like mount Carmel.’ In images of 
the awful and terrible kind, with which the sacred poets 
abound, they plainly draw their descriptions from that 
violence of the elements, and those concussions of nature, 
with which their climate rendered them familiar. Earth¬ 
quakes were frequent; and the tempests of hail, thunder, 
and lightning, in Judea, accompanied with whirlwinds and 
darkness, far exceed any thing of that sort which happens 
in more temperate regions. 


Hence, what follows; and what illustration is also given from Isaiah I 
Which were the two most remarkable mountains of Judea; and for what 
were they respectively noted I Hence, with the greatest propriety, what is 
done; and what illustrations are given from Isaiah, and from Solomon I 
Whence do they draw their images of the aw r ul and the terrible kind also; 
and how is this il'ustrated 1 



308 THE POETRY OF [Lect. 38 

Besides the natural objects of their country, the rites of 
their religion, and the arts and employments of their com¬ 
mon life, were frequently employed as grounds of imagery 
among the Hebrews. They were chiefly occupied with agri¬ 
culture and pasturage. These were arts held in high honor 
among them—not even disdained by their patriarchs, kings, 
and prophets. Little addicted to commerce ; separated from 
the rest of the world by their laws and their religion ; they 
were, during the better days of their state, strangers, in a 
great measure, to the refinements of luxury. Hence, 
naturally flowed, the many allusions to pastoral life—to the 
1 green pastures and the still waters*’ and to the care and 
watchfulness of a shepherd over his flock, which convey, 
to this day, so much beauty and tenderness in them, in the 
XXIlid Psalm, and in many other passages of the poetical 
writings of Scripture. Hence, all the images founded upon 
rural employments, upon the winepress, the threshing-floor, 
the stubble and the chaff; and to disrelish such images, is 
the effect of false delicacy. 

The comparisons employed by the sacred poets are 
generally short, touching on one point of resemblance only 
In this respect, they have the advantage over the Greek and 
Roman authors ; whose comparisons, from their length, 
sometimes interrupt the narration, and carry visible marks 
of study and labor. But in the Hebrew poets, they appear 
more like the glowings of a lively fancy, just glancing aside 
to some resembling object, and soon returning to its track. 
Such is the following fine comparison, in which the influence 
of a good government upon a people, is described. ‘ He 
that ruleth over men must be just, ruling in the fear of God ; 
and he shall be as the light of the morning, when the sun 
riseth ; even a morning without clouds ; as the tender grass 
springing out of the earth, by clear shining after the rain.’ 
This is one of the most regular and formal comparisons in 
the sacred books. 

Allegory, likewise, is a figure frequently found in them. 

Besides the natural objects of their country, what were frequently em¬ 
ployed as grounds of imagery among the Hebrews 'l Of their habits, occu¬ 
pations, and situation, what is remarked ; and hence what allusions natu¬ 
rally flowed'? Hence, also, what images; and of what is the disrelish of 
such images the effect 1 Of the comparisons employed by the sacred poets, 
what is remarked ; and how do they compare with those employed by 
the Greeks and Romans'? How is this illustrated; and what example 
is given from Isaiah 1 Of allegory, what instance was formerly given, 
and what is observed of it I 



Lect. 38.] THE HEBREWS. 309 

When formerly treating of this figure, we gave for an in¬ 
stance of it, that remarkably fine and well supported alle¬ 
gory, which occurs in the LXXXth Psalm, in which the 
people of Israel are compared to a vine. Of parables, 
which are a species of allegory, the prophetic writings are 
full; and if to us they sometimes appear obscure, we must 
remember, that in those early times, it was the universal 
mode throughout all the eastern nations, to convey sacred 
truths under mysterious figures and representations. 

But the figure which, beyond all others, elevates the 
poetical style of the Scriptures, is personification. The per- — 
sonifications of the Scriptures exceed, in boldness and 
sublimity, every thing that can be found in other poems. 
This is more particularly the case when any appearance or 
operation of the Almighty is concerned. ‘ Before him went 
the pestilence—the waters saw thee, O God, and were 
afraid—the mountains saw thee, and they trembled—the 
overflowing of the water passed by—the deep uttered his 
voice, and lifted up his hands on high.’ Indeed, the style of 
the poetical books of the Old Testament is, beyond the style of 
all other poetical works, fervid, bold, and animated. It is 
very different from that regular, correct expression, to which 
our ears are accustomed in modern poetry. It is the hurst 
of inspiration. The scenes are not coolly described, but 
represented as passing before our eyes. Every object, and 
every person, is addressed and spoken to as if present. Bold 
sublimity, not correct elegance, is its character. We see the 
spirit of the writer raised beyond himself, and laboring to 
find vent for ideas too mighty for his utterance 

After these general remarks on the poetry of the Scrip- 
ures, we shall conclude this subject with a short account of 
the different kinds of poetical composition in the sacred 
books, and of the distinguishing characters of some of the 
chief writers 

The several kinds of poetical composition found in Scrip¬ 
ture, are chiefly the didactic, elegiac, pastoral, and lyric. 


Of parables what is remarked; and if to us they sometimes appear 
obscure, what must we remember 1 What figure is it that most elevates 
the poetical style of the Scriptures; and what is remarked of them 'l 
When is this more particularly the case ; and what example is given 7 In 
what respects does the style of the poetical books of the Old Testament 
surpass the style of all other poetical works; and how is this fully illus¬ 
trated 1 After these general remarks, with what shall we conclude this sub¬ 
ject 1 What are the several kinds of poetical composition found in Scripture 1 



310 THE POETRY OF [Lect. 38. 

Of the didactic species of poetry, the book of Proverbs is 
the principal instance. The first nine chapters of that hook 
are highly poetical, adorned with many distinguished graces 
and figures of expression. At the tenth chapter the style is 
sensibly altered, and descends into a lower strain, which is 
continued to the end. Of elegiac poetry, many very beau¬ 
tiful specimens occur in Scripture ; such as the lamentation 
of David over his friend Jonathan; several passages in the 
prophetical books ; and several of David’s Psalms, com¬ 
posed on occasions of distress and mourning. But the most 
regular and perfect elegiac composition in the Scripture, and, 
perhaps, ever composed, is the book entitled the Lamentation 
*of Jeremiah. As the prophet mourns over the destruction 
of the temple, and the holy city, and the overthrow of the 
whole state, he assembles all the affecting images which a 
subject so melancholy could possibly suggest. 

The Song of Solomon affords us a high exemplification of 
pastoral poetry. In its form, it is a dramatic pastoral, or a 
continued dialogue between personages in the character of 
shepherds ; and suitably to that form, it is full of rural and 
pastoral images throughout. Of lyric poetry, the Old Tes¬ 
tament is full. Besides a great number of hymns and songs, 
scattered in the historical and prophetical books, the whole 
book of Psalms is to be considered as a collection of sacred 
odes. In these we find the ode exhibited in all the vari¬ 
eties of its form, and supported with the highest spirit of 
lyric poetry; sometimes sprightly, cheerful, and triumphant; 
sometimes solemn and magnificent; and sometimes tender 
and soft. 

With regard to the composers of the sacred books, it is 
obvious that there is great diversity, both in style and man¬ 
ner. Of the sacred poets, the most eminent are, the author 
of the book of Job, David, and Isaiah. In the compo¬ 
sitions of David, there is a great variety in the style and 
manner. In the pleasing, the soft, and the tender, he ex¬ 
cels. In his Psalms there are many lofty and sublime 

Of the didactic, what is the principal instance ; and what is remarked of 
it 1 What instances of elegiac poetry are found in Scripture ; and what 
is particularly remarked of the Lamentations of Jeremiah 'l Of what 
kind does the Song of Solomon afford an exemplification ; and what is said 
of it! Of the lyric poetry what is remarked; and what is said of the 
Psalms'! With regard to the compositions of the sacred books, what is 
obvious; and of the sacred poets who are the most eminent'? What is 
said of the compositions of David ; and in what Psalms does he affect us 
most'? 



Lect. 38.] THE HEBREWS. 311 

passages; but in strength of description he yields to Job, 
in sublimity, to Isaiah. The Psalms in which he affects 
us most, are those in which he describes the happiness of 
the righteous, or the goodness of God ; expresses the tender 
breathings of a devout mind, or sends up moving and 
affectionate supplications to Heaven. 

Isaiah is, without exception, the most sublime of all poets. 
Majesty is his reigning character; and in his conceptions 
and expressions, he possesses a dignity and grandeur, which 
is altogether unparalleled, and peculiar to himself. When 
we compare him with the rest of the poetical prophets, we 
immediately see in Jeremiah a very different genius. Isaiah 
employs himself, generally, on magnificent subjects. Jere¬ 
miah seldom discovers any disposition to be sublime, and 
inclines always to the tender and elegiac. Ezekiel, in 
poetical grace and elegance, is much inferior to them both, 
but he is distinguished by a character of uncommon force and 
ardor. Bishop Lowth compares Isaiah to Homer, Jeremiah 
to Simonides, and Ezekiel toiEschylus. 

The book of Job remains to be noticed. It is known to 
be extremely ancient, and the author of it is uncertain. It 
is remarkable that this book has no connection with the 
affairs or manners of the Jews or Hebrews. The poetry of 
it, however, is not only equal to that of any other of the 
sacred writings, but is superior to them all, Isaiah excepted. 
It abounds in a peculiar glow of fancy, and in metaphor. 
The author renders whatever he treats of, visible. The 
scene is laid in the land of Uz, or Idumaea ; and the imagery 
employed in it differs from that which was before observed to 
be peculiar to the Hebrew poets. 

What is observed of Isaiah; and how does he compare with the rest 
of the poetical prophets. Of Jeremiah, and of Ezekiel, what is remarked 1 
Repeat the following observations on the book of Job. 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Introductory remarks. 

2. The diversity of style of the 

Old Testament. 

3. The peculiar construction of 

Hebrew poetry. 

A. Its origin. 

4. Figurative language of the 

Scriptures. 

A. Its boldness. 

B. Imagery peculiar to them¬ 

selves. 


a. Illustrated. 

C. Religious rites, &c. em 

ployed. 

D. Comparisons. 

E. Allegory. 

F. Personification. 

5. The different kinds of Hebrew 
poetry. 

A. Distinguished Hebrew poet*. 

B. The book of Job 






LECTURE XXXIX. 


EPIC POETRY. 

It now remains to treat of the two higher kinds of 
poetical writing—the epic and the dramatic. In this lecture 
we shall examine the general principles of epic composition ; 
after which we shall take a view of the character and genius 
of the most celebrated epic poets. 

Of all poetical works, the epic poem is uniformly allowed 
to be the most dignified, and, at the same time, the most 
difficult of execution. To contrive a story which shall, at 
once, be entertaining, important, and instructive; to fill it 
with suitable incidents; to enliven it with a variety of cha¬ 
racters and of descriptions; and, throughout a long work, 
to maintain that propriety of sentiment, and that elevation of 
style, which the epic requires, is unquestionably the highest 
effort of poetical genius. Hence so very few have succeeded 
in the attempt, that some critics will hardly allow any other 
poems to bear the name of epic, besides the Iliad and the 
iEneid. N 

An epic poem may be defined to be, the recital of some 
illustrious enterprise in a poetical form. In this definition, 
which is sufficiently exact, are included, besides the two 
illustrious works already mentioned, Lucan’s Pharsalia, 
Tasso’s Jerusalem, Camoens’ Lusiad, Fenelon’s Telemachus, 
Voltaire’s Henriade, and Milton’s Paradise Lost. These 
are all epics, because they are poetical recitals of great ad¬ 
ventures ; which is all that is meant by this denomination 
of poetry. 

Though it may not be allowed that it is the essence of an 
epic poem to be wholly an allegory, or a fable contrived to 
illustrate some moral truth, yet no poetry is certainly of a 
more moral nature than this. Its effect in promoting virtue, 
is not to be measured by any one maxim, or instruction. 


What now remains to be treated of; and in this lecture, what shall we 
do 'l Of the epic poem, what is uniformly allowed ; and what is unques¬ 
tionably the highest effort of poetical genius I Hence what has followed 1 
What is the definition of an epic poem; in this definition what are in¬ 
cluded ; and why 'l Of the morality of the epic poem, what is remarked ; 
and what is observed of its effect in promoting virtue 1 



Lect. 39.] EPIC POETRY. 313 

which results from the whole story, hut it arises from the lm 
pression which the parts of the poem separately, as well as 
the whole taken together, make upon the mind of the reader— 
from the great examples which it sets before us, and the high 
sentiments with which it warms our hearts. The end 
which it proposes is to extend our ideas of human perfection, 
and to excite our admiration. Valor, truth, justice, fidelity, 
friendship, piety, and magnanimity, are, consequently, pre¬ 
sented to our minds in it, under the most splendid and honor¬ 
able colors. In behalf of virtuous personages our affections 
are engaged ; in their designs and their distresses, we are 
interested ; the generous and public affections are awakened; 
the mind is purified from sensual and mean pursuits, and 
accustomed to take part in great heroic enterprises. 

It is, indeed, no small testimony in honor of virtue, that 
several of the most refined and elegant entertainments of 
mankind, such as that species of poetical composition which 
we are now considering, must be grounded on moral senti¬ 
ments and impressions. This is a testimony of such weight, 
that, were it in the power of skeptical philosophers to weaken 
the force of those reasonings which establish the essential 
distinctions between vice and virtue, the writings of epic 
poets alone, would be sufficient to refute their false philoso¬ 
phy—showing, by that appeal which they constantly make 
to the feelings of mankind in favor of virtue, that the found¬ 
ations of it are laid deep and strong in human nature. 

The general strain and spirit of epic composition, suf¬ 
ficiently distinguish it from the other kinds of poetry. In 
pastoral writing, the reigning idea is innocence and tran¬ 
quillity ; and of tragedy, the great object is compassion : 
but the predominant character of the epic is, admiration ex¬ 
cited by heroic actions. It is sufficiently distinguished from 
history, both by its poetical form, and the liberty of fiction 
which it assumes. It requires, more than any other species 
of poetry, a grave, equal, and supported dignity. It takes 
in a greater compass of time and action, than dramatic 
writing admits ; and thereby allows a more full display of 


What is the end which it proposes; and what consequence follows ? 
Illustrative of this, what is farther observed ? What is no small testimony 
in honor of virtue; and of this testimony what is remarked? What 
sufficiently distinguishes epic composition from the other kinds of poetry; 
and how is this illustrated ? By what is it sufficiently distinguished from 
history; and what does it require? How does it compare with dramatic 
writing ; and what follows ? 

27 



314 EPIC POETRY. [Lect. 39. 

characters. Dramatic writings display characters chiefly 
by means of sentiments and passions - epic poetry, chiefly 
by means of actions. The emotions, therefore, which it 
raises, are not so violent, hut they are more prolonged. 

Having thus given the general characteristics of the epic 
poem, we shall next consider this species of composition 
under three heads : first, with respect to the subject, or 
action ; secondly, with respect to the actors, or characters ; 
and lastly, with respect to the narration of the poet. 

The action or subject of the epic poem, must have three 
properties ; it must be one; it must be great; it must be 
interesting. 

First, the poet must choose one action, or enterprise, for 
his subject. Aristotle, with great propriety, insists upon this 
as essential to epic poetry ; and it is, indeed, the most mate¬ 
rial of all his rules respecting it. For it is certain that, 
in the recital of heroic adventures, several scattered and in¬ 
dependent facts can never affect a reader so deeply, nor 
engage his attention so strongly, as a tale that is one and 
connected, where the several incidents hang upon one 
another, and are all made to conspire for the accomplishment 
of one end. In a regular epic, the more sensible this unity 
is rendered to the imagination, the better will the effect be ; 
and, for this reason, it is not sufficient for the poet to confine 
himself to the actions of one man, or to those which hap¬ 
pened during a certain period of time; but the unity must 
i lie in the subject itself, and arise from all the parts combined 
into one whole. 

In all the great epic poems, unity of action is sufficiently 
apparent. Virgil, for instance, has chosen for his subject, 
the establishment of AHneas in Italy. From the beginning 
to the end of the poem, this object is ever in our view, and 
links all the parts of it together with full connection. The 
unity of the Odyssey is of the same nature—the return and 
re-establishment of Ulysses in his own country. The sub¬ 
ject of Tasso is the recovery of Jerusalem from the infidels; 
that of Milton, the expulsion of our first parents from Para- 


Having thus given the general characteristics of epic poetry, under 
what three heads do we next proceed to consider it 7 What three proper¬ 
ties must the action of the epic poem have 7 First, what must the poet 
do ; what is said of this ; and why 7 Of this unity in a regular epic, what 
is observed; for this reason what is not sufficient; and where must the 
unity lie 7 How does it appear that in all the great epic poems, unity oi 
action is sufficiently apparent 7 



Lect. 39.] EPIC POETRY. 315 

dise ; and both of them are unexceptionable in the unity of 
the story. The professed subject of the Iliad is the anger 
of Achilles, with the consequences which it produced. But 
as Achilles is frequently out of sight, it must be confessed 
that the unity is not so sensible to the imagination in this 
poem as in the iEneid. 

It is not, however, to be understood, that the unity of the 
epic action is to exclude all episodes. On the contrary, the 
epic poem would be cold without them. What we now un¬ 
derstand by episodes is, certain actions or incidents intro¬ 
duced into the narration, connected with the principal action, 
yet not of such importance as to destroy, if they had been 
omitted, the main subject of the poem. Of this nature are 
the interview of Hector with Andromache, in the Iliad ; 
the story of Nisus and Euryalus, in the iEneid ; and the 
prospect of his descendant exhibited to Adam, in the last 
books of Paradise Lost. 

In the use of episodes, the following rules must be ob¬ 
served : First, they must be naturally introduced, and have 
such connection with the main subject of the poem, as 
to seem inferior parts that belong to it. The episode of 
Olinda and Sophronia, in the second book of Tasso’s Jeru¬ 
salem, transgresses this rule. It is too much detached from 
the rest of the work ; and being introduced so near the 
opening of the poem, misleads the reader into an expectation 
that it is to be of some future consequence, whereas it proves 
to be connected with nothing that follows. In the next place, 
episodes ought to present to us objects of a different kind 
from those which go before, and those wdiich follow in the 
course of the poem. For, it is principally for the sake of 
variety, that episodes are introduced into epic composition. 
In so long a work, they tend to diversify the subject, and to 
relieve the reader by changing the scene.' In the midst of 
combats, therefore, a martial episode would not be appro¬ 
priate ; but Hector’s visit to Andromache, affords a pleasing 
retreat from camps and battles Lastly, as an episode is a 


What is the professed subject of the Iliad ; and what is remarked of 
it ? What is not, however, to be understood; why ; and what do w^ now 
understand by episodes ? Of this nature are what episodes ? In the use 
of episodes, what is the first rule to be observed ? What episode trans¬ 
gresses this rule; and why ? In the next place, what should episodes 
present to us; why; and what remark follows? What illustration is 
given ? In the last place, what, should be the character of episodes; and 
wh at follows ? 



316 EPIC POETRY. [Lect. 39 

professed embellishment, it ought to be particularly elegant 
and well finished ; and, accordingly, it is, for the most part, 
in pieces of this kind, that poets put forth their strength. 

The second property of the epic action is, that it be great— 
that it have sufficient splendor and importance, both to fix 
our attention, and to justify the magnificent apparatus which 
the poet bestows upon it. This is so evidently requisite, 
that all who have attempted epic poetry, have succeeded in 
choosing some subject sufficiently important, either by the 
nature of the action, or by the fame of the personages con¬ 
cerned in it. It contributes to the grandeur of the epic subject, 
that it be not of modern date, nor fall within any period of 
history with which we are intimately acquainted. Both 
Lucan and Voltaire have, in the choice of their subjects, 
transgressed this rule. The former does not please by con 
fining himself too strictly to historical truth ; and the latter 
has improperly mingled well known events, with fiction. 
Hence they exhibit not that greatness which the epic 
requires. 

The third property required in an epic poem is, that it be 
interesting. It is not sufficient for this purpose that it be 
great; for deeds of mere valor, however heroic, may prove 
cold and tiresome. Much will depend upon the happy 
choice of some subject, which shall, by its nature, interest 
the public ; as when the poet selects for his hero, one who 
is the founder, the deliverer, or the favorite of his country. 
But the chief circumstance which renders an epic poem in¬ 
teresting, and which tends to interest, not one age or coun¬ 
try alone, but all readers, is the skilfull management of the 
subject. The author must so contrive his plan, as that it 
shall comprehend many affecting incidents. He must not 
perpetually dazzle us with valiant achievements ; but he 
must study to touch our hearts. He may sometimes be 
awful and august; but he must often be tender and pathetic. 
The more an epic poem abounds with situations which 
awaken the feelings of humanity, the more interesting it is ; 

What is the second property of the epic action 'l That this is indis¬ 
pensably requisite, what proof have we 1 What contributes to the gran¬ 
deur of the epic subject; and who have transgressed this rule 1 Why do 
they not please; and hence what follows I What is the third property 
required in an epic poem I For this purpose what is not sufficient; why 
and on what will much depend 'l But what is the chief circumstance 
which renders an epic poem interesting; and how is this illustrated 'l What 
must he not, and what must he do 1 In proportion to what is an epic poem 
interesting; and what remark follows 1 



Lect. 39.] EPIC POETRY. 31 * 

ana these always form the favorite passages of the work. 
To render the epic interesting, great care must also be em¬ 
ployed with respect to the character of the heroes. He must 
rouse our attention by a prospect of the difficulties which 
seem to threaten disappointment to their enterprises ; he 
must make these difficulties grow and thicken upon us by 
degrees; till after having kept us for some time in a state d 
agitation and suspense, he paves the way, by a proper pre¬ 
paration of incidents, for the winding up of the plot, in a 
natural and probable manner. 

Critics hav ; generally inclined to think that the epic poem 
should conclude happily ; and this seems to be natural. An 
unhappy conclusion depresses the mind, and is opposed to 
the elevating emotions which belong to this species of poetry. 
Terror and compassion are the proper subjects of tragedy; 
but as the epic poem is of larger compass and extent, it 
would be too much, if after the difficulties and troubles 
which commonly abound in the progress of the poem, that 
the author should bring them all at last to an unfortunate 
issue. Accordingly, the general practice of epic poets is 
on the side of a prosperous conclusion ; not, however, with¬ 
out some exceptions. For two authors of great name—Lu¬ 
can and Milton, have followed a contrary course; the one 
concluding with the subversion of Roman liberty, and the 
other with the expulsion of man from Paradise. 

With regard to the time of the epic action, no precise 
boundaries can be ascertained. A considerable extent is 
always allowed to it, as it does not necessarily depend on 
those violent passions which can be supposed to have only a 
short continuance. Of the Iliad, the action, according to 
Bossu, lasts no longer than forty-seven days. The action 
of the Odyssey extends to eight years and a half; and that 
of the iEneid includes about six years. 

From the action of the epic, we proceed to the actors or 
personages. The personages in an epic v poem should be 


To render the epic interesting, about what, also, must great care be 
taken ; and how is this fully illustrated 1 What have critics generally in¬ 
clined to think; and why does this seem natural 1 Of what are terror and 
compassion the proper subjects; but of the epic what is remarked 1 Ac¬ 
cordingly, what has been the general practice ; but to this, what exceptions 
have we 1 With regard to the time of the epic action, what is remarked ; 
and why is considerable extent allowed to it 1 What is the time of the 
Iliad, of the Odyssey, and of the iEneid 1 From the action, to what 
do we proceed; and of them what is remarked ? 

27 * 



318 EPIC POETRY. [Lkct. 39 

proper and well supported. They should display the leatures 
of human nature; and admit of different degrees of virtue 
and turpitude. But whatever the character be which a poet 
gives to any of his actors, he must be careful to preserve it 
uniform and consistent throughout. Poetic characters are 
of two sorts—general and particular. General characters 
are such as are wise, brave, and virtuous, without any far¬ 
ther distinction. Particular characters express the species 
of bravery, of wisdom, or of virtue, for which any one is 
eminent. They exhibit the peculiar features which distin¬ 
guish one individual from another, and which mark the 
difference of the same moral quality in different men, accord¬ 
ing as it is combined with other dispositions in their temper. 
In this discrimination of characters, Homer excels. Tasso 
approaches the nearest to him in this respect; hut here, Vir¬ 
gil is greatly deficient. 

Among epic poets, it is the practice to select some particu¬ 
lar personage as the hero. This is considered essential to 
epic composition, and is attended with several advantages. 
It renders the unity of the subject more sensible, when there 
is one principal figure, to which, as to a centre, all the res 
refer. It tends to interest us more in the enterprise which 
is carried on ; and it gives the poet an opportunity of exert¬ 
ing his talents to adorn and display one character with 
peculiar splendor, ft has been asked, Who then is the hero 
of Paradise Lost ? The devil, it has been answered by 
some critics; and, in consequence of this idea, much ridicule 
has been thrown upon Milton. But they have mistaken 
that author’s intention, by proceeding upon the supposition, 
that in the conclusion of the poem, the hero must necessarily 
be triumphant. But Milton has given a tragical conclusion 
to his poem; and has evidently made Adam his hero. 

In epic poetry, besides human characters, gods and super¬ 
natural beings are introduced. This forms what is called 
the machinery of the epic ; and the French suppose it essen¬ 
tial to this species of poetry. They conceive, that in every 


Poetic characters are of what two sorts; and what is said of each 1 
What do the latter exhibit; and in this particular what is said of Homer, 
Tasso, and Virgil ? Among epic poets, what practice has prevailed : and 
what advantages result from it? Who is the hero of Milton’s Pandise 
Lost ? In epic poetry, what besides human characters have been intro¬ 
duced ; and what does this form ? Why do the French think this essential 
to epic poetry; but why does there seem to be no solid reason for their 
opinion ? 



Lect. 39.] 


EPIC POETRY. 


319 


epic, the main action ough. to be carried on by the interven¬ 
tion of the gods. But there seems to be no solid reason for 
their opinion. Lucan’s poem is very spirited, and certainly 
epic; but neither gods nor supernatural beings are employed 
m it. But if machinery be not absolutely necessary to the 
epic poem, it ought not to be totally excluded. The mar¬ 
vellous has a great charm for the generality of readers. It 
gratifies and fills the imagination, and affords opportunity 
for much sublime description. At the same time, it becomes 
the poet to be temperate in the use of supernatural beings; 
and to employ the religious faith or superstition of his coun-•. 
try in such a way, as to give an air of probability to events, 
that are most contrary to the ordinary course of nature. • 

With regard to allegorical personages, such as Fame, 
Discord, Love, and such like, they always form the worst 
possible machinery. In description they may be allowed ; 
but they should never bear any part in the action of the. 
poem. As they are only mere names of general ideas, they 
ought not to be considered as persons, and cannot mingle 
with human actions, without an unseemly confusion of 
shadows with realities. 

As to the narration of the epic poem, it is of little conse¬ 
quence whether it proceeds in the character of the poet or 
in the person of some of the actors. It is to be observed, 
however, that if the narrative be given by any of the actors, 
it affords the poet the advantage of spreading out such parts 
of the subject as he inclines to dwell upon in person, and of 
comprehending the rest within a short recital. 


But why should not machinery be totally excluded from it'? At the 
same time, what does it become the poet to dol What is observed of alle¬ 
gorical personages ; and how is this illustrated ? What two courses may 
be pursued in narration; and what are the advantages of the latter I 


ANALYSIS. 


Epic poetry. 


X. The definition of an epic poem. 
A. Its design. 


C. To be interesting also. 


a. The close. 


D. The time of the action. 


2. The character of the epic. 
A. Unity in the action. 


3. The personages. 

A. The hero. 

B. The machinery. 


a. Illustrated. 


b. Episodes—their requisites. 
B. The action to be great. 


4. The narration. 






LECTURE XL. 

HOMER’S ILIAD AND ODYSSEY—VIRGIL S 
iENEID—LUCAN’S PHARSALIA. 

As the epic poem is universally allowed to possess the 
highest rank among poetical works, it merits a particular 
discussion. Having treated of the nature of this composi¬ 
tion, and the principal rules that relate to it, we proceed 
to make some observations on the most distinguished epic 
poems, both ancient and modern. 

Homer, as the father of epic poetry, claims the first rank. 
In order to relish his poems, we must remember that they 
are the oldest writings extant, except the Bible. We must 
also divest ourselves of all modern ideas of dignity, and 
transport our imaginations back, almost three thousand years 
in the history of mankind. What we are to expect is a pic¬ 
ture of the ancient world. We must reckon upon finding 
characters and manners, that retain a considerable tincture 
of the savage state; moral ideas but imperfectly formed; 
and the appetites and passions of men brought under none 
of those restraints to which, in a more advanced state of 
society, they are accustomed. The distinguishing charac¬ 
teristics of Homeric poetry are, fire and simplicity; but in 
order to have a clear idea of his merit, it will be of advan¬ 
tage to consider the Iliad under the three heads of the sub¬ 
ject and action, the characters, and the narration. 

The subject of the Iliad is, unquestionably, happily chosen; 
for no subject could be more splendid than the Trojan war. 
A ten years’ siege against Troy, and a great confederacy of 
the Grecian states, must have spread far the renown of many 
military exploits, and give an extensive interest in the heroes 
who were concerned in them. Upon these traditions Homer 
built his poem; and as he lived two or three centuries after 


Why does the epic poem merit a particular discussion ; and what remark 
follows ? Who claims the first rank; and in order to relish his poems, what 
must we remember, and what must we do ? What are we to expect; and 
upon what must we reckon ? What are the distinguishing characteristics 
of Homeric poetry; but to have a clear idea of the Iliad, how must we con¬ 
sider it? Why was the subject of the Iliad happily chosen ; and how is 
this remark illustrated? What gave Homer the liberty of intermingling 
fable with history; and what part of the war did he choose ? 



Lect. 40.] HOMER’S ILIAD. 321 

the circumstai ;es related transpired, he had full liberty to 
intermingle fa ne with history. He chose not, however, the 
whole Trojan war for his subject; but selected, with great 
judgment, the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon, 
which includes the most interesting period of it. He has 
thus communicated the greater unity to his performance. 
He gained one hero, or principal character, that is, Achilles ; 
and he shows the pernicious consequences of discord among 
confederate princes. 

The praise of high invention has, in every age, been given 
to Homer, with the greatest reason. The prodigious num- 
oer of incidents, of speeches, of characters divine and human, 
with which he abounds ; the surprising variety with which 
he has diversified his battles, in the wounds, and deaths, and 
little history pieces of almost all the persons slain, discover an 
invention next to boundless. Nor is his j udgment less worthy 
of admiration. His story is every where conducted with art. 
He rises upon us gradually. He introduces his heroes with 
exquisite skilfulness into our acquaintance. The distress 
thickens as the poem advances; and every thing is so con¬ 
trived as to aggrandize Achilles, and to render him, as the 
poet intended he should be, the capital figure. 

It is in the characteristical part of his writings, however, 
where Homer is without a rival. He abounds in dialogue 
and conversation, and this produces a spirited exhibition of 
his personages. It must, at the same time, be acknowledged, 
that if this dramatic method is often expressive and animated, 
it takes away, occasionally, from the gravity and majesty of 
the epic. For example, it may be observed, that some of the 
speeches of Homer are unseasonable, and others trifling 
With the G~eek vivacity, he has also the Greek loquacity. 

Perhaps, in no character does he display greater art than 
in that of Helen. Notwithstanding her frailty and her 
crimes, he continues to make her an interesting object. The 
admiration with which the old generals behold her when she 
is coming towards them, presents her to us with much dig¬ 
nity. Her veiling herself and shedding tears in the presence 

What advantage did this give him 'l What has, in every age, been given 
to Homer; and what discover an invention next to boundless 1 How does 
it appear that his judgment is not less worthy of admiraticn 'l Where, 
however, is Homer without a rival; with what does he abound; and what 
is its effect 1 What must, at the same time, be acknowledged; and what 
example is given ? In what character does he display great art; and how 
is this illustrated - What exhibit the most striking features of that mixed 
female character, which we partly condemn, and partly pity 1 



322 HOMER’S ILIAD. [Lect. 40. 

of Priam, her grief and self-accusations at the sight of 
Menelaus, her upbraiding Paris for his cowardice, and at 
the same time, her returning fondness for him, exhibit the 
most striking feature of that mixed female character, which 
we partly condemn, and partly pity. 

Paris himself, the author of all the mischief, is charac¬ 
terized with the utmost propriety. He is, as we should ex¬ 
pect him to be, a mixture of gallantry and effeminacy. He 
retreats from Menelaus, on his first appearance; but imme¬ 
diately afterwards, enters into single combat with him. He 
is a great master of civility, remarkably courteous in his 
speeches ; and receives all the reproofs of his brother Hector 
with modesty and deference. He is described as a person 
of elegant taste; and was even the architect of his own 
palace. 

Homer has been charged with having made his hero, Achil¬ 
les, of too brutal and unamiable a character. But this charge 
is evidently without foundation. Achilles was, indeed, pas¬ 
sionate to a great degree ; but he was far from being a con¬ 
temner of laws and justice. In the contest with Agamemnon, 
though he may carry it on with too much heat, yet he had 
reason on his side ; for it must be remembered, he had been 
notoriously wronged. Besides bravery and contempt of 
death, he had also the qualities of openness and sincerity. 
He loved his subjects, and respected the gods. He was 
strong in his friendships; and, throughout, he was high- 
spirited, gallant, and honorable. 

Homer’s gods make a great figure in the Iliad; but his 
machinery was not his own. He followed the traditions of 
his country. And though his machinery is often lofty and 
magnificent, yet it is true that his gods are sometimes de¬ 
ficient in dignity. They have all the human passions—they 
drink, they feast, and are vulnerable like men. While, 
however, he at times degrades his divinities, he knows how 
to make them appear with the most awful majesty. Jupiter, 
for the most part, is introduced with great dignity; and 
several sublime conceptions are founded on the appearances 
of Neptune, Minerva, and Apollo. 


What is said of Paris ; and how is this fully illustrated 'l With what 
has Homer been charged; but why is this charge without foundation 1 
Besides bravery, what qualities did Achilles possess 7 What is remarked 
of Homer’s machinery ; and of his gods, what is observed 1 While at 
times he degrades his divinities, how do they often appear; and how is this 
illustrated ? 



Lect. 40.] HOMER’S ODYSSEY. 323 

With regard to the style or manner of Homer, it is easy, 
natural, and, in the highest degree, animated. He resembles, 
in simplicity, the poetical parts of the Old Testament. 
Those who are acquainted with him in Mr. Pope’s trans¬ 
lation only, can have no conception of his manner. That 
translation is, indeed, an excellent performance, and in the 
main, faithful to the original; but it is still nothing else than 
Homer modernized. Though, in some places, it may he 
thought to have improved Homer, yet, in the midst of the 
elegance and luxuriancy of Mr. Pope’s language, we lose 
sight of the old hard’s simplicity. 

In the narration, Homer is concise and descriptive. He 
paints his objects, as it were, to our sight. His battles are 
admirable. We see them in all their hurry, terror, and 
confusion. His similes are thrown out in the greatest abun¬ 
dance; and many of them are extremely beautiful. His 
comparisons have also great merit; but they come upon us 
in too quick succession. They even serve, at times, to dis¬ 
turb the train of his narration. His lions, bulls, eagles, 
and herds of sheep, recur too frequently; and the allusions 
in some of his similes, even after the allowances that are to 
be made for ancient manners, must be admitted to be de¬ 
basing. 

Upon the subject of the Odyssey, the criticism of Lon¬ 
ginus is not without foundation. He observes, that in this 
poem, Homer may be likened to the setting sun, whose 
grandeur remains without the heat of his meridian beams. 
In vigor and sublimity, it is inferior to the Iliad. It has, 
however, great beauties, and is confessedly a very amusing 
poem. It possesses much greater variety than the Iliad ; 
and exhibits very pleasing pictures of ancient manners. 
Instead of the ferocity that pervades the Iliad, it presents us 
with amiable images of hospitality and humanity. It enter¬ 
tains us with many a wonderful adventure, and many a 
landscape of nature; and there is a rich vein of morality 
and virtue running through every part of the poem. 

At the same time, it contains some defects which must be 


With regard to Homers style, what is observed; and what does he re¬ 
semble 7 What is said of those who are acquainted with him in Mr. Pope’s 
translation only; and of that translation what is observed 7 How is Ho¬ 
mer in narration; and how is this illustrated 7 Of his similes and his 
comparisons, what is observed 7 Of the Odyssey, what says Longinus 7 
Though in vigor and sublimity it is inferior to the Iliad, yet what beauties 
has it 7 At the same time what defects does it contain 7 



324 VIRGIL’S iENEID. [Lect. 40, 

acknowledged. Many of its scenes are evidently below the 
level of the epic poem. The last twelve books, after Ulysses 
is landed in Ithaca, are, in many places, tedious and languid; 
and perhaps the poet is not happy in his discovery of Ulysses 
to Penelope. She is too cautious and distrustful ; and we 
meet not that surprise of joy which was to have been ex¬ 
pected on such an occasion. 

After these remarks on the father of epic poetry, we pro¬ 
ceed to Virgil, whose character is very different from that 
of Homer. As the distinguishing excellencies of the Iliad 
are simplicity and fire, those of the iEneid are elegance 
and tenderness. When we begin to read the Iliad, we find 
ourselves in the regions of the most remote and unrefined 
antiquity. When we open the iEneid, we discover all the 
correctness and refinement of the Augustan age. We meet 
with no contentions of heroes about a female slave—no 
violent scolding, nor abusive language. There reigns 
throughout the whole poem an uniform magnificence. 

The subject of the iEneid, which is the establishment of 
ACneas in Italy, is extremely happy. Nothing could be 
more interesting to the Romans, than to look back to their 
origin from so famous a hero. And while the object was 
splendid itself, the traditionary history of his country opened 
an interesting field to the poet; and he could glance at all 
the future great exploits of the Romans, in its ancient and 
fabulous state. 

With regard to the unity of action, it is, in the A3neid, per¬ 
fectly well preserved. The settlement of iEneas, by the order 
of the gods, is constantly kept in view. The episodes are 
properly linked with the main subject. The modus, or in¬ 
trigue of the poem, is happily managed. The wrath ol 
Juno, who opposes iEneas, gives rise to all his difficulties, 
and connects the human with the celestial operations 
throughout the whole poem. 

In these main parts, Virgil has conducted his work with 
great propriety, and shown his art and judgment; but it is 
not to be supposed that he is without his faults. One great 


To what do we next proceed ; how does he compare with Homer; and 
how is this illustrated ] What is the subject of the iEneid; what is 
observed of it; why ; and what remark follows ] How does it appear that 
unity of action is perfectly well preserved in it ] Though in those main 
parts Virgil has conducted his work with propriety; yet what is not to be 
supposed] What is one great imperfection in the iEneid; and of these 
resnectivoly what is -remarked ] 



Lect. 40.] VIRGIL’S ENEID. 325 

imperfection of the Eneid is, that there are scarcely any 
marked characters in it. Achates, Cloanthas, Gyas, and 
other Trojan heroes who accompanied Eneas into Italy, are 
insipid figures. Even Eneas himself is not a very interest¬ 
ing hero. He is described, indeed, as pious and brave ; but 
his character is not marked with any of those strokes that 
touch the heart. The character of Dido is by far the best 
supported in the whole work. 

Besides this defect of character in the Eneid, the manage¬ 
ment of the subject is also exceptionable. The six last 
books received not the finishing hand of the author ; and for 
this reason, he ordered his poem to be committed to the 
flames. The wars with the Latins are unimportant and 
uninteresting; and the reader is tempted to take part with 
Turnus against .Eneas. 

The principal excellence of Virgil is tenderness. His 
soul was full of sensibility. He must have felt himself all 
the affecting circumstances in the scenes he describes ; and 
he knew how to touch the heart by a single stroke. In an 
epic poem, this merit is the next to sublimity. The second 
book of the Eneid is one of the greatest master-pieces that 
was ever executed. The death of old Priam, and the 
family pieces of Eneas, Anchises, and Creusa, are as tender 
as can be conceived. In the fourth book, the unhappy pas¬ 
sion and death of Dido are admirable. The episodes of 
Pallas and Evander, of Nisus and Euryalus, of Lausus and 
Mezentius, are all extremely fine. 

In his battles, Virgil is far inferior to Homer. But in 
the important episode, the descent into hell, he has surpassed 
Homer by many degrees. There is nothing in antiquity to 
equal the sixth book of the Eneid. The scenery, the ob¬ 
jects, and the description, are great, solemn, and sublime. 
With regard to their comparative merit, it must be allowed, 
that Homer was the greater genius, and Virgil the more cor¬ 
rect writer. Homer is more original, more bold, more 
sublime, and more forcible. In judgment, they are both 
eminent. Homer has all the Greek vivacity; Virgil all tin 


Besides this defect, what is observed of the management of the subject, 
and how is this illustrated? What is the principal excellence of Virgil, 
and what remark follows 1 In an epic poem, what rank does this merit 
hold; and what instances of this does this work contain ? In his battles, 
how does Virgil compare with Homer; in what has he far excelled him; 
and what is observed of it ? With regard to their comparative merit, what 
is observed ? 0 



326 LUCAN’S PHARSALIA. [Lect 40 

Roman stateliness. The imagination of Homer is the most 
copious ; that of Virgil, the most correct. The strength of 
the former lies in warming the fancy; that of the latter in 
touching the heart. Homer is more simple; Virgil more 
elegant. 

After Homer and Virgil, the next great epic poet of-ancient 
times, is Lucan. In his Pharsalia, there is little invention ; 
and it is conducted in too historical a manner to be strictly 
epic. It may be arranged, however, under the epic class, 
as it treats of great and heroic adventures. The subject of 
the Pharsalia has sufficiently the epic dignity and grandeur ; 
and it possesses also unity of object: for it points to the 
triumph of Csesar over the Roman liberty. 

But though the subject of Lucan is confessedly heroic, 
it is not happy. It has two defects. Civil wars present 
shocking objects to observation, and furnish melancholy pic¬ 
tures of human nature. These are not fit topics for the 
heroic muse. It was the unhappiness of Lucan’s genius 
to delight in savage scenes, and to depict the most savage 
forms of atrocious cruelty. Another defect of Lucan’s sub¬ 
ject is, that it was too near the times in which he lived. 
This deprived him of the assistance which he might other¬ 
wise have derived from fiction and machinery. The facts 
upon which his poem is founded, were too well known, and 
too recent, to admit of fables, and the interposition of gods. 

The characters of Lucan are drawn with spirit and force. 
But although Pompey is his hero, he has not been able to 
make him sufficiently interesting. He is not distinguished 
for either magnanimity or valor ; and is always surpassed 
by Csesar. Cato is a favorite character with Lucan ; and he 
is very careful to make him, at all times, appear to great 
advantage. 

In managing his story, Lucan confines himself too much 
to chronological order. This breaks the thread of his nar¬ 
ration, and hurries him from place to place. He is, at the 
same time, too digressive ; and indulges preposterously in 
geographical descriptions, and in philosophical disquisitions. 


After Homer and Virgil, who is the next great epic poet of ancient 
times What is said of his Pharsalia; and why may it be ranked undei 
the epic class 'l What is said of the subject of Lucan; and what is the 
first 'l What was the other defects; of what did this deprive him; and 
why I How are Lucan’s characters drawn; and of Pompey and flat a 
what is remarked 'l What are the defects in the management of his st *rv % 



Lect. 40.] LUCAN’S PHARSALIA. 327 

It must, notwithstanding? be allowed, that there are splen¬ 
did passages in the Pharsalia; but the strength of this poet 
does not lie either in narration or description. His narration 
is often dry and harsh, and his descriptions overwrought. 
His chief merit consists in his sentiments. They are 
noble, striking, glowing, and ardent. He is the most philo¬ 
sophical, and the most patriotic poet of ancient times. He 
was a stoic; and the spirit of that philosophy pervades his 
work. He is elevated and bold ; and his feelings were keen 
and warm. 

As his vivacity and fire are great, he is apt to be carried 
away by them. Indeed, his great defect is want of mode¬ 
ration. He never knows how to stop. When he would 
aggrandize his objects, he is unnatural and tumid. His 
taste is marked with the corruption of his age ; and instead 
of poetry, he often exhibits declamation. 

On the whole, however, he must be allowed the praise of 
liveliness and originality. His high sentiments and his fire 
seem to atone for his various defects. His genius had 
strength, bat was without tenderness or amenity. Compared 
with Virgil, he may be allowed to have more fire and higher 
sentiments, hut in every thing else falls infinitely below him. 


What must- still be allowed ; and of his narration and description what 
is observed 7 In what does his chief merit consist; what is said of these; 
and what remark follows 7 What is his great defect; and how is this 
illustrated 7 What must he be allowed; what remarks follow; and how 
does he compare with Virgil 7 


ANALYSIS. 


Homer. 

1. The Iliad. 

A. The subject happy. 

B. The poet’s invention. 

C. His characters. 

a. Helen—Paris- Achilles. 

D. The style. 

E. The narration. 

2. The Odyssey. 

Virgil. 


1. The A2neid. 

A. The subject 
a. Its unity. 

B. Virgil’s defects. 

C. His excellencies. 

2. Homer and Virgil compared 
Lucan. 

1. His Pharsalia. 

A. The subject defective, 

B. Its general character. 







LECTURE XLI. 

TASSO’S JERUSALEM—CAMOENS’ LUSIAD— 
FENELON’S TELEMACHUS—VOLTAIRE’S 
HENRIADE—MILTON’S PARADISE 
LOST. 

Having examined the ancient epic poems, we proceed 
next to Tasso, the first distinguished epic poet of modern 
times. His Jerusalem Delivered is a strictly regular poem 
of the epic kind, and is adorned with all the beauties that 
belong to that species of composition. The subject is the 
recovery of Jerusalem from the infidels, by the united pow¬ 
ers of Christendom. The enterprise was splendid, venera¬ 
ble, and heroic ; and an interesting contrast is exhibited 
between the Christians and the Saracens. Religion renders 
the subject august, and opens a field for sublime description 
and machinery. The action, too, lies in a country, and at 
a period of time sufficiently remote, to admit the intermixture 
of fable with history. 

In the conduct of the story, Tasso has shown a rich and 
fertile invention ; which, in a poet, is a capital quality. His 
events are finely diversified. He never fatigues his reader 
by sameness or repetition. His scenes have an endless 
variety ; and from camps and battles he frequently transports 
us to more pleasing objects. The work, at the same time, is 
artfully connected; and in the midst of variety, the author 
preserves, perfectly, the unity of his plan. 

The poem is enlivened, too, with a variety of characters ; 
and these are all supported with striking propriety. God¬ 
frey, the leader of the enterprise, is prudent, moderate, and 
brave ; Tancred is amorous, generous, and gallant; Ri- 
naldo is passionate and resentful, but full of honor and hero¬ 
ism. Solyman, the tender Erminia, the artful and violent 
Armida, the masculine Clorinda, are all well drawn and 


To whom do we next proceed ; and of his Jerusalem Delivered, what is 
remarked 1 What is the subject of it; and of the enterprise, what is ob¬ 
served 1 What effect does religion produce; and what is said of the 
action 1 In the conduct of the story, what has Tasso shown; what is 
stud of this ; and how is this fully illustrated I With what too is the poem 
enlivened; how are these supported; and what illustrations follow 'l 



Lect 41.] TASSO’S JERUSALEM. 329 

animated figures. In the drawing of characters, Tasso is, 
indeed, remarkably distinguished : he is superior to Virgil; 
and yields to no poet but Homer. 

He abounds very much with machinery; and in this part 
of the work, his merit is more dubious. When celestial 
beings interfere, Tasso is noble. But devils, enchanters, 
and conjurers, act too great a part throughout the poem. 
And, in general, the marvellous is carried to an extrava¬ 
gance, that very much mars the interest of the work. The 
poet had conceived too great an admiration of the romantic 
spirit of knight-errantry. 

With all the beauties of description, and of poetical style, 
Tasso remarkably abounds. In describing magnificent ob¬ 
jects, his style is firm and^ majestic. In gay and pleasing 
description, it is soft and insinuating. Erminia’s pastoral 
retreat in the seventh hook, and the arts and beauty of Ar- 
mida in the fourth hook, are exquisitely beautiful. His 
battles are full of fire, and varied in the incidents. It is 
chiefly by actions, characters, and descriptions, that he in¬ 
terests us; for in the sentimental part of his performance he 
does not excel. He is far inferior to Virgil in tenderness; 
and, in general, when he aims at sentiment, he is artificial. 

Tasso has often been charged with abounding in point and 
conceit; but this is an error : for in his general character he 
is masculine. The humor of decrying him has passed from 
the French critics to those of England. But their censures are 
founded either in ignorance or prejudice ; for the Jerusalem, 
as a regular epic, ranks next to those of Homer and Virgil. 
Tasso is eminent for the fertility of his invention, the ex¬ 
pression of his characters, the richness of his description, 
and the beauty of his style. 

As the Italians boast of Tasso, so do the Portuguese ol 
Camoens, who was nearly his cotemporary. The subject 
of the poem of Camoens, is the discovery of the East Indies 
by Vasco de Gama ; and the enterprise is alike splendid and 


In the drawing of characters, how does Tasso compare with Virgil and 
Homes- 7 What is said of Tasso’s machinery; when is it noble; but what 
remarks follow 7 With what does Tasso abound; and how is this re¬ 
mark illustrated 7 What is said of his battles; by what does he interest 
us ; and why 7 In what is he inferior to Virgil; and when is he artificial 7 
With what has Tasso often been charged; but why is this an error 7 
What is said of the humor of decrying Tasso ; and what rank does the Je¬ 
rusalem hold 7 For what is Tasso eminent 7 Of whom do the Portuguese 
coast; and what is the subject of his poem 7 

28* 



330 OAMOENS’ LUSIAD. [Lect. 41 

interesting-. The adventures, distresses, and actions, of 
Vasco and his countrymen, are well fancied and described; 
and the Lusiad is conducted on the regular epic plan. The 
incidents of the poem are magnificent; and if an allowance 
be made for some wildness and irregularity, there will be 
found in it much poetic spirit, much fancy, and much bold 
description. In this poem, however, there is no attempt at 
painting characters; and the machinery of the Lusiad is 
altogether extravagant. There prevails in it an odd mix¬ 
ture of Christian ideas and Pagan mythology. The Pagan 
divinities appear to be true deities ; and what is strange, 
Christ and the holy Virgin are made to be subordinate 
agents. The great purpose, notwithstanding, of the Portu¬ 
guese expedition, is to extend the empire of Christianity, 
and to extirpate Mahometanism. 

In this religious undertaking, the chief protector of the 
Portuguese is Venus, and their great adversary is Bacchus. 
Jupiter is introduced as foretelling the downfall of Mahomet. 
Vasco, during a storm, implores the aid of Christ and the 
Virgin; and, in return to his prayer, Venus appears, and 
discovering the storm to be the work of Bacchus, complains 
to Jupiter, and procures the winds to be hushed. All this 
is most preposterous ; but towards the end the poet makes an 
apology for his mythology. His apology, however, is not 
satisfactory ; for his salvo is, that the goddess Thetis informs 
Vasco, that she and the other heathen divinities, are nothing 
more than names to describe the operations of Providence. 

There is, however, in the Lusiad, some fine machinery of 
a different kind. The appearance of the genius of the 
River Ganges, in a dream, to Emanuel, King of Portugal, 
inviting him to discover its secret springs, and acquainting 
him that he was the destined monarch for whom the trea¬ 
sures of the East were reserved, is a fine idea. But it is in 
the fifth canto that the poet displays his noblest conception of 
this sort. Vasco is there recounting the wonders of his 
navigation. And when the fleet arrived at the Cape of 
Good Hope, which had never been doubled before by any 


What is said of it; and how is this illustrated ? In this poem, at what 
is there no attempt; what prevails in it; and what remarks follow I In 
this religious undertaking, who protects and who opposes the Portuguese ; 
and how is Jupiter represented I What are all preposterous ; what is the 
poet’s apology; and what is observed of it I There is, however, what in 
the Lusiad; and what is a fine ideal But where does the poet display 
his noblest conception of this sort; and what is it % 



Lect.41.] FENELON’S TELEMACHUS. 331 

navigator, he relates that there appeared to them suddenly, 
a huge phantom, rising out of the sea in the midst of tem¬ 
pests and thunder, with a head that advanced to the skies, 
and a countenance the most terrific. This was the genius 
of that hitherto unknown ocean ; and he menaced them in a 
voice of thunder, not to invade those undisturbed seas, and 
foretelling the calamities that were to hefal them, retired 
from their view. This is one of the most solemn and 
striking pieces of machinery ever employed; and is a 
sufficient evidence that Camoens was a poet of a hold and 
lofty imagination. 

In reviewing the epic poets, it would he unpardonable not 
to notice the amiable author of the Adventures of Tele- 
machus. His work, though not composed in verse, is justly 
entitled to be considered a poem ; and the plan is, in general, 
well contrived, having epic grandeur, and unity of action. 
He employs the ancient mythology, and excels in its appli¬ 
cation. His descriptions are rich and beautiful; especially 
of the softer and calmer scenes, for which the genius of 
Fenelon was best suited. He delights in painting the inci¬ 
dents of pastoral life, the pleasures of virtue, and the pros¬ 
perity and tranquillity of peace. 

His first six books are eminently excellent. The adven¬ 
tures of Telemachus, as recounted to Calypso, are the chief 
beauty of the work. The narration throughout them is 
lively and interesting. In the books which follow, espe¬ 
cially the last twelve, there is less happiness in the execution. 
The author, in his warlike adventures, is the most unfor¬ 
tunate. The principal objection to this work being classed 
with epic poems, arises from the minute details of virtuous 
policy, into which the author in some places enters ; and 
from the discourses and instructions of Mentor, which recur 
too frequently, and in which there is, doubtless, too much of 
a common-place morality. To these peculiarities, however, 
the author was led from the design with which he wrote— 
that of forming a young prince to the cares and duties of a 
virtuous monarch. 

’V'^iat was this; what did he do; and what is said of it 1 In re¬ 
viewing epic poets, what would be unpardonable ; and what is said of his 
work 1 What does he employ; and how 'l What is observed of his 
descriptions ; and in what does he delight I Which books are excellent; 
and what are the chief beauty of the work I Of the books which follow, 
what is observed ; and where is the author the most unfortunate 1 What 
is the principal objection to ranking this work with epic poems; but to 
these peculiarities, bv what was the author l6d! 




332 VOLTAIRE’S HENRIADE. [Lect. 41. 

Several poets of the epic class, have described a descent 
into hell; and in the prospects they have given us of the 
invisible world, we may observe the gradual refinement of 
men’s notions concerning a state of future rewards and pun¬ 
ishments. In Homer, the descent of Ulysses into hell, is 
indistinct and dreary. The scene is in the country of the 
Cimmerians, who inhabit a region covered with clouds and 
darkness; and when the dead appear, we hardly know 
whether Ulysses is above or below ground. The ghosts, 
too, even of the heroes, appear to be sad and dissatisfied. 

In Virgil, the descent into hell discovers greater refine 
ment, and indicates a higher advancement in philosophy. 
The objects are distinct, awful, and grand. There is a fine 
discrimination of the separate mansions of the good and the 
evil spirits. Fenelon has still improved upon Virgil. The 
visit of Telemachus to the shades, is in a higher style of 
philosophy. He employs the same fables and the same 
mythology; but he refines the ancient mythology by his 
knowledge of the true religion, and that beautiful enthu 
siasm for which he is so remarkable. His relation of the 
happiness of the just, is an admirable effort in the mystic 
strain. 

In his Henriade, Voltaire has given us a regular epic 
poem, in French verse. To deny genius to Voltaire would 
be absurd; and in the present work, accordingly, he dis¬ 
covers, in several places, that boldness of conception, that 
vivacity, and that liveliness of expression, for which he has 
been so much distinguished. Several of the comparisons are 
new and remarkably happy. But, perhaps, the Henriade 
is not the master-piece of this writer. In the tragic line he 
has certainly been more successful than in the epic. It may 
be observed, too, that French versification is by no means 
suited to epic composition. Its want of elevation is against 
it, as well as its being fettered with rhyme. There is thence 
not only a feebleness in the Henriade, but even a prosaic 
flatness. The poem, consequently, languishes ; and the 
imagination of the reader is not animated with any of that 


What have several of the epic poets attempted to describe ; and in the 
prospects they give us, what may be observed How is this remark fully 
illustrated from Homer, from Virgil, and from Fenelon 1 In his Henriade, 
what has Voltaire given us; and in the present work, what does he dis¬ 
cover 1 What is said of several of the comparisons; and what remark 
follows 'l What may also be observed; why; and what consequence 
follows 1 



Lect. 41.] VOLTAIRE’S HENRIADE. 333 

spirit and interest, which ought to he inspired by a sublime 
and spirited performance of the epic kind. 

The subject of the Henriade is the triumph of Henry the 
Fourth over the arms of the League. But the action ofthe 
poem includes, properly, only the siege of Paris. It is, in 
its nature, sufficiently epic; and the poem, in general, is 
conducted according to the critical rules. But it has great 
defects. It is founded on civil wars ; and it presents to the 
mind the odious objects of assassinations. The events on 
which it is founded are of too recent date, and too much 
within the circle of well known incidents. The author has 
farther erred, by improperly mixing fiction with truth. For 
instance, he makes Henry travel into England, and to hold 
an interview with Queen Elizabeth. Now Henry never 
saw England, and never conversed with Elizabeth ; and 
such unnatural fables are so wild, that they shock every 
intelligent reader. 

In order to embellish his subject, Voltaire has employed 
a great deal of machinery; but it is remarkable that his ma¬ 
chinery is of the worst kind. It consists of allegorical 
beings. Discord, cunning, and love, appear as personages, 
mix with the human actors, and make a considerable figure 
in the intrigue of the poem. This is contrary to every rule 
of rational criticism. It is possible to believe in-the exist¬ 
ence of ghosts, angels, and devils; but it should be consi- * 
dered that allegorical beings are no more than representations 
of human passions and dispositions ; and they ought not to 
have a place as actors in any poem. 

In justice to our author, however, it should be observed, 
that the machinery of St. Louis, which he also employs, is 
possessed of real dignity. The prospect of the invisible 
world, which St. Louis gives to Henry in a dream, is a very 
fine passage in the Henriade. The introduction, by Death, 
of the souls of the dead, in succession before God, and the 
palace of the Destinies, are also passages which are striking 
and magnificent. 

Though some of the episodes in this poem are properly 

What is the subject of the Henriade; but of the action of the poem, 
what is observed 1 Though in its nature it is sufficiently epic, yet what 
are its defects 1 How has the author farther erred; and what instance is 
mentioned 1 What is remarked of the machinery of Voltaire; and how 
is this illustrated 'l To what is this contrary; and what remarks follow 'l 
In justice to our author, however, what must be observed; and what 
instances of illustration follow 'l Of the episodes, the narration, and the 
strain of sentiment, what is observed : and what remark follows I 




334 MILTON’S PARADISE LOST. [Lect. 41. 

extended, yet the narration is altogether too general. At 
the same time, the events are too much crowded together. 
The strain of sentiment, however, which pervades the 
Henriade, is noble. Religion appears always with the 
greatest lustre; and the poem has that spirit of humanity 
and toleration, which is the constant distinction of men, who 
rise far above the level of the species. 

Milton, of whom we are still to speak, has marked out 
for himself a new and very extraordinary track in poetry. 
As soon as we open his Paradise Lost, we find ourselves 
introduced, at once, into an invisible world, and surrounded 
with celestial and infernal beings. Angels and devils are 
not the machinery, but the principal actors in the poem ; and 
what in any other composition would he the marvellous, is 
here only the natural course of events. A subject so remote 
from the affairs of this world, may leave room to doubt 
whether Paradise Lost can properly be classed among epic 
poems. But whether it be epic or not, it is certainly a high 
effort of poetical genius; and in majesty and grandeur, is 
equal to any performance of ancient or modern times. 

How far Milton was happy in the choice of his subject, 
may be questioned. It certainly led him upon very difficult 
ground. Had he taken a subject that was more human, 
and less theological; that was more connected with the 
occurrences of real life, and afforded a greater display of 
the characters and passions of men, his poem would, per¬ 
haps, have, to the generality of readers, been more pleasing 
and attractive. His subject, however, was certainly suited, 
in a peculiar manner, to the daring sublimity of his genius. 
As he alone, perhaps, was fitted for his subject, so he has 
shown, in the conduct of it, a stretch both of imagination 
and invention, which is perfectly wonderful. It is astonish¬ 
ing that, from the few hints given us m the sacred Scriptures, 
he should have been able to raise so complete and regular a 
structure, and to fill his poem with such a variety of inci 
dents. No doubt he is, at times, dry and harsh; and too 
often the metaphysician and the divine. But in the genera; 
flow of his narration, he is engaging, elevated, and affect- 

What has Milton marked out for himself; and how is this illustrated 'l 
Of what may the subject leave room to doubt; but of the work what re¬ 
mark follows 1 On the choice of Milton’s subject, what is observed; and 
what would have been, to the generality of readers, more interesting 1 To 
what, however, was it well suited ; and what remark follows T What is 
matter of astonishment; of the general plan of his narration what is ob¬ 
served ; and how is this illustrated 'l 



IjEct. 41.] MILTON’S PARADISE LOST. 335 

mg. His objects are changed with art; his scene is now 
in heaven, and now on earth ; and amidst this variety, the 
unity of his plan is perfectly supported. Still and calm 
scenes are exhibited in the employments of Adam and Eve 
when in Paradise ; and there are busy scenes, and great 
actions, in the enterprise of Satan, and the wars of the angels. 
The amiable innocence of our first parents, and the pride and 
ambition of Satan, afford a contrast throughout the whole 
poem, which gives it an uncommon charm. 

The nature of the subject did not admit of any great dis 
play of characters; but such as could be introduced are 
supported with much propriety. Satan forms a very striking 
figure ; and Milton has artfully given him a character not 
altogether void of some good qualities. He is brave ; and 
to his own troops he is faithful. In the midst of his impiety, 
he is not without remorse. He even feels a sentiment of 
compassion for our first parents, and appeals to the necessity 
of his situation, as an apology for his machinations against 
them. He is actuated by ambition and resentment, rather 
than pure malice. The characters of Beelzebub, Moloch, 
and Belial, are well painted. But the good angels, though 
dignified, have too much uniformity. They have their dis¬ 
tinctions, however ; and it is impossible, not to remark the 
mild condescension of Raphael, and the tried fidelity of 
Abdiel. The attempt of the poet to describe God himself, 
was too bold, and accordingly, it is unsuccessful. Our first 
parents are finely portrayed. Perhaps Adam is sometimes 
represented as too knowing and refined for his situation; 
but Eve is most happily delineated. Her gentleness, mo 
desty, and frailty, mark, very expressively, a female cha¬ 
racter. 

Milton’s great and distinguishing excellence is, his sub¬ 
limity. In this he is far superior to any other poet. But 
it is to be observed that his sublimity is of a peculiar kind. 
It differs from that of Homer, which is always accompanied 
with impetuosity and fire. There is, in Milton’s sublimity, 
a calm and amazing grandeur. Homer warms and hurries 


What afford a contrast throughout the whole poem; and what is ob¬ 
served of it I What did not the nature of the subject admit ; but what 
remark follows 7 How is this fully illustrated in the character of Satan; 
and what other characters are well painted 1 What is said of the good 
angels 'l Where has Milton failed ; why ; and what is said of Adam and 
Eve 1 What was Milton’s distinguishing excellence ; and how does ho 
compare with Homer 1 




33l> MILTON’S PARADISE LOST. [Lect. 41 

us along. By Milton we are fixed in a state of elevation 
and astonishment. The sublimity of the former is to be 
found most, most commonly, in his descriptions of actions ; 
that of the latter, in the representation of stupendous and 
wonderful objects. 

But though Milton is most distinguished for his sublimity, 
yet his work abounds in the beautiful also, and the pleasing, 
and the tender. When the scene is in Paradise, the imagery 
is always gay and smiling. His descriptions show an un¬ 
commonly fertile imagination ; and in his similes he is re¬ 
markably happy. His faults—for what writer is without 
them—are to be found chiefly in his learned allusions, and 
his introduction of ancient fables. 

The language and versification of Milton has high merit. 
His style is full of majesty, and wonderfully adapted to his 
subject. His blank verse is harmonious and diversified, 
and affords an admirable example of that unusual elevation 
which our language is capable of attaining by the force of 
numbers. There may, indeed, be found prosaic lines in his 
poem; but these may easily he pardoned in a long work, 
where the poetry is, in general, so smooth, so varied, and 
so flowing. 


Besides its sublimity, with what also does his work abound ; and how is 
this illustrated ? In what may his faults be chiefly found 1 Of Milton’s 
language and versification what is remarked; and how is this fully illus¬ 
trated I 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Tasso’s Jerusalem. 

A. His invention. 

B. His characters. 

a. The machinery. 

b. The descriptions. 

C. An objection to the poem. 

2. Camoens’ Lusiad. 

A. The subject. 

a. The machinery. 

3 Fenelon’s Telemachus. 

A. Its general character. 


a. The visit to the shades. 

4. Voltaire’s Henriade. 

A. The subject. 

a. The machinery. 

b. The sentiment. 

5. Milton’s Paradise Lost. 

A. The subject. 

B. The characters. 

C. The sublimity—the tender¬ 

ness. 

D. The style and versification 








LECTURE XLII. 

DRAMATIC POETRY—TRAGEDY. 


Dramatic poetry has always, among all civilized nations, 
been a favorite amusement. It is divided into two forms— 
tragedy and comedy. Tragedy is the most dignified; as 
great and serious objects are more interesting than trifling 
and ludicrous ones. The one rests upon the passions, the 
virtues, the crimes, and the sufferings of mankind; the 
other, upon their humors, follies, and pleasures. Terror 
and pity are the great instruments of the former ; ridicule, 
of the latter. 

Tragedy is a direct imitation of human manners and 
actions. It does not exhibit characters by description or 
narration ; it sets the personages before us, and makes them 
act and speak with propriety. This species of writing, con 
sequently, requires a deep knowledge of the human heart, 
and when happily executed, it has a commanding power in 
raising the strongest emotions. 

Tragedy, as poetic composition, is, in its general strain 
and spirit, favorable to virtue. It operates chiefly, by ex¬ 
citing virtuous emotions. Characters of honor, claim our 
respect and approbation; and to raise indignation, we must 
paint a person in the odious colors of depravity and vice. 
Virtuous men are, indeed, often represented by the tragic 
poet, as unfortunate ; for this happens in real life: but he 
never fails to engage our hearts in their behalf; and, in the 
end, he always conducts them to triumph and prosperity. 
Upon the same principle, if bad men are represented as suc¬ 
cessful, they are yet finally led to punishment. The object 
of this species of composition should, therefore, always be, 
to improve our virtuous sensibility. If an author interests 


What is remarked of dramatic poetry; and how is it divided 1 Why is 
tragedy the most dignified ; on what do they respectively rest; and what 
are their instruments 1 Of what is tragedy an imitation; what illustration 
follows; and of this species of writing, what is farther observed'? To 
what is tragedy favorable; how does it operate ; and what remarks follow *? 
Why are virtuous men often represented as unfortunate; but what is 
always done'? Upon the same principle, what is remarked of bad men? 
What, therefore, should always be the object of this species of composition; 
and when has an author attained all the moral purposes of the tragic muse I 



338 DRAMATIC POETRY. [Lect. 4 % 

us in behalf of virtue, excites in us compassion for the dis¬ 
tressed, inspires- us with proper sentiments on beholding- the 
vicissitudes of life, and stimulates us to avoid the misfortunes 
of others, by exhibiting their errors, he has attained all the 
moral purposes of the tragic muse. 

To effect this purpose, it is necessary to have an interesting 
story as the subject, and to conduct it in a natural and proba¬ 
ble manner. For the end of tragedy is not so much to 
elevate the imagination, as it is to affect the heart. This 
principle, which is founded, in the clearest reason, excludes 
from tragedy all machinery, and all fabulous interventions 
whatever. Ghosts alone, from their foundation in popular 
belief, 1 ave maintained a place in it; but the use even of 
them, is not to be commended, and they must be managed 
with great art. 

To pro. note the impression of probability, the story of a 
tragedy, a cording to some critics, should never be a pure 
fiction, but ought to be based on real history. This, how¬ 
ever, is certainly carrying the matter too far ; for a fictitious 
tale, if properly conducted, will melt the heart as much as any 
real history. It is sufficient that nature and probability be 
not violated; and, therefore, the tragic poet may mingle 
many fictitious circumstances, with real and well known 
facts, without the least objection. The great majority of 
readers never think of separating the historical from the 
fabulous. They regard, and are affected by those events 
only, that resemble nature. Accordingly, some of our most 
affecting tragedies, such as the Fair Penitent, and Douglas, 
are entirely fictitious in their subject. 

Tragedy was, at its origin, very rude and imperfect. 
Among the Greeks, it was nothing more than the song that 
was sung at the festival of Bacchus. These songs were 
sometimes sung by the whole company, and sometimes by 
separate bands, answering alternately to each other, and 
making a chorus. To give this entertainment the greater 
variety, Thespis, who flourished about 530 years before the 
Christian aara, introduced, between the songs, a recitation 


To effect this purpose, what is necessary ; and why”? What does this 
principle exclude from tragedy ; and what remark follows 1 To promote 
the impression of probability, what opinion has prevailed; but why is this 
carrying the matter too far? What is sufficient; and, therefore, what 
follows ? Why is this the case; and what is, therefore, said of some of 
our best tragedies ? What was the state of tragedy at its origin.; how is 
this illustrated; and what is said of Thespis and iEschylus. 



Lect. 42.] TRAGEDY. 339 

in verse; and iEschylus, who lived fifty years after him, 
introduced a dialogue between two persons, or actors, com¬ 
prehending some interesting story, and placed them upon a 
stage adorned with scenery. The drama now began to 
assume a regular form; and was soon after brought to per¬ 
fection by Sophocles and Euripides. 

From this account it appears that the chorus was the 
foundation of tragedy. But what is remarkable, the dramatic 
dialogue, which was, at first, only an addition to it, soon 
became the principal part of the entertainment. The chorus, 
losing its dignity, came to be considered only an accessory 
in tragedy. At length, in modern tragedy, it disappeared 
altogether ; and its absence from the stage, in modern times, 
is the chief distinction between our drama and that of the 
ancients. With regard to the chorus, it must be allowed, 
that it added splendor to the drama; and that it was a vehicle 
for moral lessons, and high poetic efforts. But still it w r as 
unnatural, and detracted from the interest of the piece. Il 
removed the representation from the resemblance of real 
life; and has, consequently, with much propriety, been dis¬ 
continued. 

As in the conduct of the drama, the unities of action, 
place, and time, are considered capital circumstances, we 
shall now proceed to treat of them. v 

The unity of action is, doubtless, of great importance. It 
refers to the relation which all the incidents introduced bear 
to some design or effect, so as to combine them, naturally, 
into one whole. In tragedy, this unity of subjeci is ex 
pressly essential; for a multiplicity of plots, by distracting 
the attention, prevent the passions from rising to any height. 
Hence the absurdity of two independent actions in the same 
play. There may, indeed, be under-plots ; but the poet 
should be careful to make these subservient to the main 
action. The only object of these is to assist in bringing 
forward the catastrophe of the play. 


What did the drama now begin to assume; and by whom was it per¬ 
fected h From this account, what appears to have been the foundation ol 
tragedy ; but what is remarkable ; and how is this illustrated 'l With re¬ 
gard to the chorus, what must be allowed; and what remark follows 1 
What, in the conduct of the drama, are considered capital circumstances '? 
To what does the unity of action refer ; and why is it, in tragedy, essen¬ 
tial 'l Hence what is observed ; and of under-plots what is remarked ? 
With what must not the unity of action be confounded ; and when is 
the plot simple 1 



340 DRAMATIC POETRY [Lect. 42. 

Unity of action must not, however, be confounded with 
simplicity of plot. The plot is simple, when but a small 
number of incidents is introduced into it; and in this, the 
ancients excelled the moderns. Though the modern intro¬ 
duction of a great number of incidents, may be considered 
an improvement, as it renders the piece both more instruct¬ 
ing and more animated; yet it may be carried too far; for 
too much action and intrigue, produce perplexity and em¬ 
barrassment. Of this Congreve’s Mourning Bride is an 
example. Its events are too numerous, and too rapidly ex¬ 
hibited ; and the catastrophe is intricate and artificial. 

But the unity of action, besides being attended to in the 
general construction of the fable, must be studied in all the 
acts and scenes of the play. By an arbitrary division, there 
are five acts in every play. For this, however, there seems 
to be no necessity. On the Greek stage, the division by 
acts was unknown. Even the word act does not, in the 
Poetics of Aristotle, once occur. Practice, however, has 
established this division ; and it will, in all probability, con 
tinue to be observed. 

The first act should contain a clear exposition of the sub¬ 
ject. It should introduce the personages to our acquaintance, 
and excite curiosity. During the second, third, and fourth 
acts, the plot should advance and thicken. The passions 
should be kept perpetually awake. There should be no 
scenes of idle conversation, or vain declamation. The sus¬ 
pense and agitation of the reader should constantly increase. 
It is in this that Shakspeare surpasses all other authors. In¬ 
deed, sentiment and passion, pity and terror, should reign 
in, and pervade every tragedy. 

In the fifth act, which is the seat of the catastrophe, the 
author should display all his art and genius. The un¬ 
ravelling of the plot should be brought about by natural and 
probable means. It should be simple, depend on a few events, 
and include few persons. A passionate sensibility languishes, 
when divided among a number of objects : it is strong and 


/ Of the course pursued by the ancients and the moderns in this respect, 
what is observed; and in what play is this illustrated 1 In what, also, 
must the unity of action be studied; and on this subject, what is farther 
remarked ? Of the first, and of the second, third, and fourth acts, what 
is observed ; and how is this illustrated 1 Who excelled in this; and what 
ihould pervade every tragedy I What is remarked of the fifth act; and 
why should the unravelling be simple, and depend on few circumstances 1 



Lect. 42.] TRAGEDY. 34 

vehement only when directed to a few. In the catastrophe, 
every thing- should he warm and glowing; and the poet 
should he simple, serious, and pathetic. English tragic 
writers have generally inclined to an unhappy close; and 
this seems in accordance with the spirit of the tragic 
muse. 

Why it is that the emotions of sorrow in tragedy should 
afford gratification to the mind, is a curious inquiry ; and 
perhaps, the best reason that can be assigned for it is, that 
by the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, the ex¬ 
ercise of all the social passions is attended with pleasure. 
Nothing is more pleasing than love and friendship ; and 
consequently, whenever we take a deep interest in the con¬ 
cerns of others, an internal satisfaction is produced in our 
own minds. Pity exerts a powerful influence, and is pecu 
liarly attractive; and though it produces some distress, it, 
at the same time, includes benevolence and friendship, anc( 
partakes of the pleasing nature of those affections. The 
heart is warmed by kindness and humanity; and we are 
pleased to find ourselves capable of entering, with becoming 
sorrow, into the concerns of the afflicted. 

Having treated of the acts of a play, we pass to the 
scenes. The introduction of a new personage, constitutes 
what is called a new scene. These scenes, or successive 
conversations, should be closely connected ; and to effect 
this, the poet should, in the first place, constantly keep some 
personage before us ; and in the second place, no person 
should be introduced or pass from before us, without suffi¬ 
cient reason. If this latter rule be neglected, the nature of 
dramatic writing is violated ; for the drama professes to be 
a representation of real transactions. 

To the unity of action, critics have added the unities of 
time and place. The unity of place requires that the scene 
should not be shifted; and the unity of time, that the action 
continue no longer than would be required for the repre¬ 
sentation. Aristotle, however, permits the action to com¬ 
prehend the whole of the time of one day. The object of 


What is farther remarked of the catastrophe; and to what have English 
tragic writers inclined 1 Why do the emotions of sorrow in tragedy, afford 
gratification to the mind ; and how is this fully illustrated 'l Having 
treated of the acts of a play, to what do we pass ; for these what rules aie 
given; and of the latter what is observed 1 To the unity of action what 
have critics added; and of them respectively what is remarked 1 What, 
therefore, is the object of these rules; and what remarks follow 1 



342 DRAMATIC POETRY. [Lect. 42 

these rules, therefore, is to bring the imitation as close as 
possible to reality. In modern times, too, the practice of 
suspending the spectacle a short time between the acts, ren¬ 
ders the strict confinement to time and place less necessary. 
Strict adherence, therefore, to these unities, should not be 
preferred to high beauties of execution, or to the introduction 
of pathetic scenes. 

—From dramatic action we proceed to the characters most 
proper to be introduced in tragedy. Some critics suppose, 
that the nature of tragedy requires the principal personages 
to be always of illustrious character, and high rank. They 
affirm that the sufferings of such persons seize the heart the 
most forcibly. This, however, is but specious reasoning; 
for the distresses and agitations of private life, are affecting 
in the highest degree. Desdemona, and Belvidera, interest 
as much as though they had been queens. It is sufficient 
that there be nothing degrading or mean in the personages 
exhibited. Illustrious rank may give greater splendor to 
the spectacle ; but it is the tale itself, and the art of the poet, 
that can alone give influence to the piece. 

In describing the characters of the persons represented, 
the poet should be careful so to order the incidents that relate 
to them, as to leave favorable impressions of the care of 
Providence, and admiration for virtue. Unmixed characters, 
either of good or bad men, are, perhaps, not the most suita¬ 
ble for tragedy; for the distresses of the former, being un¬ 
merited, injure us, and the afflictions of the latter excite no 
compassion. Mixed characters, therefore, such as we meet 
with in the world, are the best field for displaying, without 
any bad consequences to morals, the vicissitudes of life. They 
interest the most deeply; and while all their distresses are 
pathetic, they are the more instructive, when their misfor¬ 
tunes are represented as springing out of their own passions, 
or as originating in some weakness incident to human nature. 

^ The Greek tragedies are too often founded on mere destiny, 
and inevitable misfortunes. Modern tragedy aims at a 
higher object, and shows the direful effects of ambition, 


From dramatic action to what do we proceed; and of these what have 
some writers supposed l Why is this but specious reasoning; and of this, 
what remarks follow 1 In describing characters, what course should the 
poet pursue; and of unmixed characters, what is observed! Wha* 
characters, therefore, are the best; and why 1 On what are the Greek 
tragedies too often founded ; but what is observed of the modern 1 



Lect. 42,] TRAGEDY. 343 

jealousy, love, resentment, and every strong-emotion. But 
of all the passions which have occupied the modern drama, 
love has had the greatest triumph. In ancient tragedies love 
is scarcely known ; and this, perhaps, is to be attributed, to 
the circumstance, that females took no part in their repre 
sentations. It is evident, however, that no solid reason can 
be assigned for the predominancy of love among modern 
tragic writers; and Home, in his Douglas, has afforded 
sufficient proof, that the drama may produce its highest 
effects, without any assistance from love. 

Besides the arrangement of his subject, and the conduct 
of his personages, the tragic poet must attend to the propriety 
of his sentiments. These must correspond with the persons 
who are represented, and with the situations in which they 
are placed. This direction is so obvious, that it does not 
require to be insisted upon ; and it is ehiefly in the pathetic 
oarts, that the difficulty of following it is to be found. 

Dramatic writers have generally been least successful in 
ieir attempts at exciting passion. A man under high pas- 
ion, makes known his feelings in the glowing language of 
ensibility. He does not coolly describe what his feelings 
.re ; yet it is to this sort of description that tragic poets 
iave recourse, when they are unable to attain the native 
anguage of passion. Thus, in Addison’s Cato, when Lu¬ 
na having confessed to Portius her love for him, swears that 
she will never marry him; Portius, instead of giving way 
to the language of grief, only describes his feelings; 

Fix’d in astonishment, I gaze upon thee, 

Like one j ust blasted by a stroke from heaven, 

Who pants for breath, and stiffens yet alive 
In dreadful look; a monument of wrath. 

These lines might have proceeded from a bystander, but 
are altogether improper from Portius. Similar to this descrip¬ 
tive language, are the unnatural and forced thoughts which 
tragic poets sometimes employ to exaggerate the feelings of 
persons whom they wish to describe under high agitation. 
Thus, when Jane Shore, in meeting with her husband in her 
distress, and on finding that he had forgiven her, calls on the 

What passion most occupies the modern drama; and what is remarked 
of this ? Besides the arrangement of his subject, to what must the tragic 
poet attend ; with what must these correspond ; and of'this direction, what 
is observed ? Where have drarnatie writers generally been least successful; 
what remarks follow; and from Addison’s Cato how is this illustrated ? 
Similar to this descriptive language are what; and what illustrations fol¬ 
low 1 ? 




344 DRAMATIC POETRY. [Lect. 42. 

rains to give her their drops, that she may possess a con¬ 
stant supply of tears, the poet strains his fancy to say some 
thing that shall be uncommonly lively. 

The language of real passion is always plain and simple. 
It abounds, indeed, with figures; but these express a dis¬ 
turbed and impetuous state of mind, and are not for mere 
parade and embellishment. The thoughts suggested by pas¬ 
sion are natural and obvious, and not exaggerations of re 
sentment, subtlety, and wit. Passion neither reasons, nor 
speculates, nor declaims: the language is short, broken, and 
interrupted. In this the Greek tragedians excel: and this, 
too, is the great excellence of Shakspeare. 

With regard to moral sentiments and reflections, they 
ought not to recur too frequently in tragedy. When unsea¬ 
sonably used, they lose their effect, and convey an air of pe¬ 
dantry. When introduced with propriety, however, they 
have great dignity. Cardinal Wolsey’s soliloquy on his 
fall, is a fine instance of the felicity with which they may 
be employed. 

The style and versification of tragedy, should be free, 
easy, and varied. English blank verse is peculiarly suited 
to this species of composition. It is capable of great ma¬ 
jesty, and may yet descend to the familiar; it admits of a 
happy variety of cadence, and is free from the monotony of 
rhyme. Of the French tragedies, it is a great misfortune 
that they are always in rhyme ; for it fetters the freedom of 
the tragic dialogue, renders it languid, and is fatal to the 
power of passion. 


What is observed of the language of real passion; and of passion 
what is farther remarked 1 With regard to moral sentiments and reflec¬ 
tions, what is observed; and of their proper introduction, what instance is 
given I What should the style and versification of tragedies be ; and what 
advantage have the English over the French in this respect 'l 


ANALYSIS. 


Dramatic poetry. 

1. Tragedy. 

A. Favorable to virtue. 

B. The subject. 

C. Its origin. 

a. The chorus. 

D. Unity of action. 

a. Simplicity of plot. 


b. Unity of the acts. 

c. Tragedy gratifying. 

d. The scenes. 

Unity of time and place. 

a. The characters. 

b. Love in modern tragedy. 

c. The sentiments. 

d T u style and versification 






LECTURE XLIII. 

GREEK TRAGEDY—FRENCH TRAGEDY— 
ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 

Having treated of all the different parts of tragedy, we 
shall now proceed to take a short view of that of Greece, 
of France, and of England ; remarking, as we pass, on the 
different distinguished writers of each country. 

We have already observed, that in the Greek tragedy 
there was much simplicity. The plot was natural and un 
encumbered ; the incidents were few ; and the conduct, with 
respect to the unities of action, time, and place, very exact. 
Machinery, or the intervention of the gods, was employed; 
and what was preposterous also, the final unravelling was 
sometimes made to turn upon it. Love, except in one or 
two instances, was never admitted into the Greek tragedy. 
Their subjects were often founded on destiny or inevitable 
misfortunes. A vein of religious and moral sentiment 
always runs through them, but they made less use than the 
moderns do, of the combat of the passions, and of the dis¬ 
tresses which they bring upon us. Their plots were all 
taken from the ancient traditionary stories of their own 
nation. Hercules furnishes matter for two tragedies. The 
history of CEdipus, king of Thebes, and his unfortunate 
family, for six. And the war of Troy, with its circum¬ 
stances, for no fewer than seventeen. 

^ JEschylus, who is the father of Greek tragedy, exhibits 
both the beauties and defects of an early original writer. 
He is bold, nervous, and animated, but very obscure and 
difficult to be understood. The ardor of his mind hurried 
him frequently into extravagance and bombast, and rendered 
that indistinct which a greater degree of attention, and a 


Having treated of all the different parts of tragedy, to what shall we 
now proceed; and what do 1 What have we already observed; and how 
is this illustrated 1 What was employed ; and what is observed of it 1 
What was never admitted; on what were their subjects often founded; and 
what remark follows 'l From what were their plots all taken ; and how is 
this remark illustrated % What does iEschylus exhibit; and what is far¬ 
ther remarked of him 1 Into what did the ardor of his mind frequently 
hurry him; and what followed 1 



346 GREEK TRAGEDY. [Lect. 43. 

more refined taste, would have made elegant and perspicuous. 
The moral sentiments which he has inculcated, spring 
rather from a view of the evils of life, an" calamities of 
the human race, than from a just knowledge of the mixed 
state of human affairs. To support them with firm courage, 
and determined resolution, was the great maxim he labored 
to establish. The guilty he alarms with the terrors of di¬ 
vine vengeance, and the unfortunate he teaches to submit to 
his calamity as arising from a destiny which must be ful¬ 
filled. The ghost of Darius in the Persse, the inspiration 
of Cassandra in Agamemnon, and the songs of the Furies 
in the Eumenides, are, however, very beautiful, and strongly 
expressive of the author’s genius. 

Sophocles is the greatest of the three Greek tragedians. 
In the conduct of his subjects, and in the sublimity of his 
sentiments, he far surpasses either ^Eschylus or Euripides. 
He is eminent for his descriptive talent also. The relation 
of the death of (Edipus, in his CEdipus Coloneus, and of 
the death of Haemon and Antigone, in his Antigone, are 
perfect examples of description in tragic poets. The style 
of Sophocles is remarkable for dignity and beauty, approach¬ 
ing even to the magnificence of the epic. It is always pure, 
perspicuous, and harmonious. He never anticipates the 
subject and issue of his plots, but evolves every incident in 
a gradual and natural manner, and keeps the mind in a state 
of suspense till the final catastrophe. 

Euripides surpasses Sophocles in tenderness and moral 
sentiments ; but in the conduct of his plhys, he is more in¬ 
correct and negligent. His expositions are made in a less 
artful manner; and the songs of his chorusses, though re¬ 
markably poetical, have, generally, less connection with the 
main action than those of Sophocles. The style of Euripides 
is simple, elegant, and not much elevated above the language 
of genteel conversation. It is admirably adapted for ex¬ 
pressing the various passions and emotions of the mind 
particularly those of the tender and amiable kind; in ex 


From what do his moral sentiments spring; and what was the great 
maxim which he labored to establish 'l What remark follows ; and what 
are beautiful and strongly expressive of the author’s genius 1 What is 
said of Sophocles ; in what does he excel; and what illustration is given 
of his descriptive talent ? What is observed of his style; and what re¬ 
mark follows 'l How does Euripides compare with Sophocles I What is 
said of his style; and to what is it admirably adapted 'l 



Lect. 43.] FRENCH TRAGEDY. 34? 

citing which he far surpassed his predecessors. iEschylus 
represented men greater than they can possibly be ; Sopho¬ 
cles, as they ought to be ; and Euripides, as they actually 
are. Euripides knew more of the effect of the passions than 
either of the former; and hence there is more of the tender 
and pathetic in his tragedies, than in those of his prede¬ 
cessors. While they, by their representations, raise the 
mind above the weakness of nature, or the vicissitudes of 
fortune, he subdues and unmans it, by pictures of distress 
and excess of feeling. On this account, Aristotle styles him 
the most tragic of all poets. 

•-S The circumstances of theatrical representation among the 
Greeks and Romans, were, in several respects, very singu¬ 
lar, and widely different from that of modern times. Not 
only were the songs of the chorus accompanied with instru¬ 
mental music, but the dialogue part had also a modulation of 
its own, and was capable of being set to notes. It has also 
been thought that, on some occasions, the pronouncing and 
gesticulating parts were divided, and performed by different 
persons. In tragedy, the actors wore a long robe, called 
syrma, which flowed upon the stage. They were also 
raised upon cothurni, which rendered their stature uncom¬ 
monly high ; and they always used masks. These masks 
were painted ; and the actors, by turning the different pro¬ 
files, exhibited different emotions to the audience—a con 
trivance which, certainly, must have been very imperfect. 
In the dramatic spectacles, notwithstanding, of both Greece 
and Rome, the attention given to their exhibition and mag¬ 
nificence, far exceeded any thing that has been attempted in 
modern times. 

In the composition of some of the French dramatic 
writers, particularly Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, tragedy 
das appeared with much lustre and dignity. They must be 
allowed to have improved upon the ancients, in introducing 
more incidents, a greater variety of passions, a fuller display 
of characters, and in rendering the subject thereby more in¬ 
teresting. They have studied to imitate the ancient models 

How did JEschylus and Sophocles respectively represent men; in what 
had Euripides the advantage; and hence what followed I How is this 
illustrated; and what says Aristotle of him 7 Of the circumstances of 
dramatic representation among the Greeks and Romans, what is remarked ; 
and how is this fully illustrated 7 Still, of their dramatic spectacles what 
is observed 7 What is said of the compositions of some of the French 
dramatic writers, and in what have they improved upon the ancients 7 In 
what have they studied to imitate the ancients ; and what remarks follow i 



348 FRENCH TRAGEDY. [Lect. 43 

in regularity of conduct. They are attentive to all the uni¬ 
ties, and to all the decorums of sentiment and morality ; and 
their style is generally very poetical and elegant. What an 
English taste is most apt to censure in them, is the want of 
fervor, strength, and the natural language of passion. There 
is often too much conversation in their pieces; they are too 
declamatory, when they should be passionate—too refined, 
when they should be simple. Voltaire freely acknowledged 
these defect* in French tragedy. He admits that their best 
pieces do not make a sufficient impression on the heart, and 
that the authors seemed afraid of being too tragic. He, 
therefore, gave it as his judgment, that a union of the vehe¬ 
mence and the action that characterize the English drama, 
with the correctness and decorum of the French, would be 
necessary to form a perfect play. 

Corneille, who is properly the father of French tragedy, 
is distinguished by the majesty and grandeur of his senti¬ 
ments, and the fruitfulness of his imagination. His genius 
was, unquestionably very rich, but seemed more turned 
towards the epic than the tragic vein ; for in general he is 
magnificent and splendid, rather than tender and touching. 
It must be remembered, however, that it seems to have been 
Corneille’s object to set forth the human character as it 
should be, and not as it really is ; and to this circumstance, 
that which may seem unnatural in his tragedies, is to be 
attributed. He composed a great number of pieces, the 
most esteemed of which are, the Cid, Horace, and Cinna. 

Racine, as a tragic poet, is much superior to Corneille. 
He wanted the copiousness and grandeur of Corneille’s ima¬ 
gination ; but is free from his bombast, and excels him greatly 
in tenderness. His Phaedra, his Andromaque, his Athalie, 
and his Mithridate, are admirable performances, and do no 
small honor to the French drama. His language and ver¬ 
sification are uncommonly beautiful. Of all the French 
authors, he appears to have most excelled in poetical style; 
to have managed their rhyme with the greatest advantage 
and facility, and to have given it the most complete harmony. 


What is English taste most apt to censure in them ; and of this, what is 
observed ? What does Voltaire admit; and what does he, therefore, give 
as his judgment? What is said of Corneille; and what is observed of 
his genius ? Of him what must be remembered; and what are his best 
pieces ? How does Racine compare with Corneille ; and what do no small 
honor to the French drama ? What is said of his language and versifi¬ 
cation ; and what remarks fol’ow ? 



Lect. 43.] ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 349 

Voltaire repeatedly pronounced Racine’s Athalie to be the 
finest drama in the French language. It is altogether a 
sacred piece, and owes much of its elevation to the majesty 
of religion; but it is less tender and interesting than 
Andromaque. 

Voltaire, in several of his tragedies, is inferior to neither 
of his great predecessors. In an important article he has 
outdone them both—in the delicate and interesting situations 
he has contrived to introduce. Here lies his chief strength. 
He is not, indeed, exempt from the defects of the other 
French tragedians, of wanting force, and of being some¬ 
times too long and declamatory in his speeches ; but his 
characters are drawn with spirit, his events are striking, 
and in his sentiments there is much elevation. His Zayre, 
Alzire, Merope, and Orphan of China, are four admirable 
tragedies, and deserve the highest praise. What seems very 
remarkable is, that Voltaire, though a professed infidel, 
should, in the strain of his sentiments, be the most religious, 
and the most moral, of all the French tragic poets. 

We have still to speak of the state of tragedy in Great 
Britain ; the general character of w T hich is, that it is more 
animated and passionate than French tragedy, but less regu 
lar and correct, and less attentive to decorum and to ele¬ 
gance. The pathetic, it must constantly be remembered, is the 
soul of tragedy. The English, therefore, must be allowed 
to have aimed at the highest species of excellence ; though 
in the execution, they have not always joined the other beau¬ 
ties that ought to accompany the pathetic. 

The first object that presents itself to us among the 
English dramatists, is the great Shakspeare. Great he may 
be justly called, as the extent and force of his natural genius, 
both for tragedy and comedy, are altogether unrivalled. 
But at the same time it must be acknowledged, that his 
genius is sometimes wild, that his taste is not always cor¬ 
rect, and that he was too little assisted by knowledge and 
art. Long has he been idolized by the British nation; much 


What said Voltaire of his Athalie; and what follows 1 How does Vob 
taire compare with his predecessors'?. From what is he not exempt; but 
what excellencies follow 'l Which of his tragedies deserve the highest 
praise ; and what is a very remarkable circumstance 1 Of what have we 
still to speak; and how does it compare with the French % What must 
constantly be remembered; and what, therefore, follows 1 Among the 
English dramatists, who first presents himself; and why may he be called 
great 1 What must, at the same time, be acknowledged; and what re¬ 
marks follow 7 


30 



350 ENGLISH TRAGEDY. [Lect. 43. 

has been said and much written concerning him ; criticism 
has been lavished with the utmost prodigality upon his words 
and witticisms; and yet it is undecided, whether his beau¬ 
ties or his faults predominate. Admirable scenes and pas¬ 
sages without number, there are in his plays—passages 
beyond what are to be found in any other dramatic writer ; 
but there is hardly any one of his plays, which can be read 
with uninterrupted pleasure throughout. Besides extrem: 
irregularities in conduct, and grotesque mixtures of the 
serious and the comic in one piece, we are often interrupted 
by unnatural thoughts, harsh expressions, a certain obscure 
bombast, and a play upon words, which he is fond of pur¬ 
suing; and these interruptions to our pleasure too frequently 
occur, on occasions where we would least wish to meet with 
them. All these faults, however, Shakspeare redeems, by 
two of the greatest excellences which any tragic poet can 
possess—his lively and diversified paintings of character, 
and his strong and natural expression of passion. These 
are his two chief virtues—on these his merit rests. Not¬ 
withstanding his many absurdities, all the while we are. 
reading his plays, we find ourselves in the midst of our fel¬ 
lows ; we meet with men—vulgar, perhaps, in their man¬ 
ners, coarse and harsh in their sentiments—but still they are 
men ; they speak with human voices, and are actuated by 
human passions ; we are interested in what they say and do, 
because we feel that they are of the same nature with our¬ 
selves. It is, therefore, no matter of wonder, that from the 
more polished and regular, but more cold and artificial per¬ 
formances of other poets, the public should return with 
pleasure to such warm and genuine representations of human 
nature. 

Shakspeare possesses likewise the merit of having created, 
for himself, a sort of world of preternatural beings. His 
witches, ghosts, fairies, and spirits of all kinds, are described 
with such circumstances of awful and mysterious solemnity, 
and speak a language so peculiar to themselves, as strongly 
to affect the imagination. His masterpieces, and those in 
which all the strength of his genius appears, are King Lear, 
Hamlet, Othello, and Macbeth. With regard to his bisto- 

What are there in his plays; but what defects do they contain 2 By 
what, however, does Shakspeare redeem all these faults; and what re¬ 
marks follow 2 What is, therefore, no matter of wonder 2 What merit 
does Shakspeare likewise possess; and how is this illustrated 2 What are 
nis masterpieces; and what is observed of his historical plays 2 



Lect. 43.] ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 351 

rical plays, they are neither tragedies nor comedies; hut a 
species of dramatic entertainment, in which he describes the 
personages, the events, and the manners of the times of 
which he treats. 

After the age of Shakspeare, we can produoe, in the 
English language, several detached tragedies of consider¬ 
able merit. But we have not many dramatic writers whose 
whole works are entitled, either to particular criticism, or 
very high praise. In the tragedies of Dryden and Lee, 
there is much fire, but a great deal of fustian and rant. 
Lee’s Theodosius is the best of his pieces, and though ro¬ 
mantic in the plan, and extravagant in the sentiments, does 
not want tenderness and warmth. Otway possessed much 
tragic jpiritand his two principal pieces, ‘ The Orphan,’ 
and 4 Venice Preserved,’ are powerful productions. These 
may, peihapi:, be considered too tragic ; the distresses being 
so great aj tc harrow the feelings, and overwhelm the mind. 
Though he possessed much genius, and strong passion, he 
is exceedingly gross and indelicate. No tragedies are less 
moral than those of Otway. 

The tragedies of Rowe form a striking contrast to those 
of Otway. He is full of elevated and moral sentiments. 
The poetry is often good, and the language always pure and 
elegant; but in most of his plays he is too cold and uninter¬ 
esting ; and flowery rather than tragic. Two of his plays, 
however, deserve to be exempted from this censure—‘ Jane 
Shore,’ and the * Fair Penitent,’—in both of which there are 
so many tender and truly pathetic scenes, as to render them 
justly favorites of the public. 

In the Revenge of Dr. Young, there are both fire and 
genius; but it is deficient in tenderness, and exhibits too 
strong a conflict of direful passions. In Congreve’s Mourn¬ 
ing Bride, are some fine situations, and much good poetry. 
The meeting of Almeria with her husband Osmyn, in the 
tomb of Adselmo, is one of the most solemn and striking 
situations to be found in any tragedy. The tragedies of 
Mr. Thomson are so full of stiff morality, that it renders 

What is remarked of English dramatic writers after the age of Shak¬ 
speare 1 What is remarked of the tragedies of Lee and of Dryden; and of 
Lee’s Theodosius what is observed 'l What is remarked of Otway ; and 
how is this illustrated'? What is said of the tragedies of Rowe; and 
what remarks follow ? What two may be exempted from this censure; 
and what is remarked of them 1 What is said of the Revenge of Dr. 
Young, and of the Mourning Bride of Congreve; and of the latter what 
illustration follows 1 



352 ENGLISH TRAGEDY. [Lect. 43. 

them dull and formal. Mr. Addison’s Cato, and Mr. Home’s 
Douglas, are both admirable productions. 

In reviewing the tragic compositions of different nations, 
we find that a Greek tragedy is the relation of some dis¬ 
tressful or melancholy incidents ; without much variety of 
parts or events, but naturally and beautifully set before us; 
heightened by the poetry of the chorus. A French tragedy 
is a series of artful and refined conversations, founded upon 
a variety of tragical and interesting situations ; carried on 
with little action or vehemence ; but with much poetical 
beauty, and high propriety and decorum. An English tra¬ 
gedy is the combat of strong passions, set before us in all 
their violence—producing deep disaster—often irregularly 
conducted—abounding in action; and filling the spectators 
with grief. The ancient tragedies were more natural and 
simple ; the modern are more artful and complex. Among 
the French, there is more correctness ; among the English, 
more fire. Andromaque and Zayre, soften ; Othello and 
Venice Preserved, rend the heart. 


Of the tragedies of Mr. Thomson, the Cato of Addison, and Douglas 
of Home, what is remarked 1 In reviewing tragic compositions, what do 
we find a Greek tragedy, a French tragedy, and an English tragedy, to be I 
How do the French and the English compare; and what illustration 
follows 1 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Greek tragedy. 

A. iEschvlus. 

B. Sophocles. 

C. Euripides. 

a. Manner of representation. 

2. French tragedy. 

A. Corneille. 

B. Racine. 


C. Voltaire. 

3. English tragedy. 

A. Shakspeare. 

a. His preternatural beings. 

B. Dry den—Lee—Otway. 

C. Rowe—Young—Thomson. 

4. The conclusion. 






LECTURE XL1Y. 


COMEDY—ANCIENT COMEDY—MODERN 
COMEDY. 

Comedy is sufficiently distinguished from tragedy, by its 
general spirit and strain. While pity and terror, and the 
other strong passions, forms the province of the latter, the 
chief instrument of the former is ridicule. Follies and 
vices, and whatever in the human character is the object of 
censure, or excites in the beholder a sense of impropriety, 
are subjects for the comic muse. 

This general idea of comedy, as a satirical exhibition of 
the improprieties and follies of mankind, is an idea very 
moral and useful. To polish the manners of men, to pro 
mote attention to the proper decorums of social conduct, and 
above all to render vice ridiculous, are highly commendable. 
There are many vices that are more successfully exploded 
by ridicule than by serious arguments. It is possible, how¬ 
ever, to employ ridicule improperly; and, by its operation, to 
do mischief instead of good. Ridicule is far from being a 
proper test of truth; and licentious writers of the comic sort, 
may cast a ridicule on objects which do not deserve it. But 
this fault is not attributable to comedy itself, but to the turn 
and genius of the writers of it. In the hands of an immo¬ 
ral author, comedy may mislead and corrupt; but in those 
of well intentioned writers, it is a pleasant entertainment, and 
may lead to reformation, and the advancement of virtue. 

*-• The rules of dramatic action, prescribed to tragedy, be¬ 
long also to comedy. The comic writer also, must observe 
the unities of action, time, and place. As the scope of all 
these rules is to bring the imitation as near as possible to 
probability, perhaps a stricter observance of them is more 


By what is comedy sufficiently distinguished from tragedy 'l What form 
the province of the latter; what is the chief instrument of the former ; and 
what are subjects for the comic muse % What is said of the general idea of 
comedy; and what are highly commendable 1 What remark follows; but 
what is, however, possible 1 Of what is ridicule not the test; and what 
follows 'l But to what is this fault attributable; and what illustration fol¬ 
lows 1 What rules of dramatic action belong equally to tragedy and com¬ 
edy ; what remark follows; and why % 



354 COMEDY. [Lect. 44 

necessary in comedy than in tragedy; for the subjects of 
comedy are more familiar, and better known. 

The subjects of tragedy are not confined to any particular 
age or country ; but it is otherwise with comedy: for the 
decorums of behavior, and the nice discriminations of cha¬ 
racter which are the objects of comedy, are to be understood 
by the natives of the country only, where the author resides 
We may weep for the heroes of Greece and Rome, but we can 
be touched with the ridicule of the manners and character? 
that come under our own observation only. The scene, there 
fore, of comedy, should always be laid in the author’s own 
country, and in his own age. The comic poet should ‘catch 
the manners living as they rise.’ It is not his business to 
amuse us with a tale of the last age, or with a Spanish or a 
French intrigue, but to give us pictures taken from among 
ourselves ; to satirize reigning and present vices; to exhibit 
to the age a faithful copy of itself, •with its humors, its follies, 
and its extravagancies. 

There are two kinds of comedy—that of character, and 
that of intrigue. In the latter, the plot of the play is the 
principal object. In the former, the display of some pecu¬ 
liar character is chiefly aimed at; and to this the whole ac¬ 
tion is made subordinate. ( The French abound most in 
comedies of character. All Moliere’s capital pieces, such 
as his Avare, his Misanthrope, and his TartufFe, are of this 
sort. The English, however, abound most in comedies of 
intrigue. In the plays of Congreve, and, in general, in all 
our comedies, there is rmich more story and action than 
there is with the French. } 

The perfection of comedy would, perhaps, be found in 
the mixture of these two kinds of entertainment together. 
Without some interesting story, mere conversation is apt to 
become insipid. There should always be so much intrigue 
as to give us something to wish, and something to fear. The 
incidents should be striking and natural; and should afford 
a full field for the exhibition of character. The piece, how¬ 
ever, should not be overcharged with intrigue; for this would 
be converting a comedy into a novel. 

Of the subjects of tragedy what is remarked; but why is it otherwise 
with comedy 1 How is this remark illustrated ; and of the scene, therefore, 
what is observed 1 What is not, and what is, the comic poets business 1 
What two kinds of comedy are there; and what is observed of them re¬ 
spectively 1 In which do the French, and in which the English abound; 
and what illustrations follow 1 Where would the perfection of comedy 
be found ; and how is this fully illustrated 1 



Lect. 44.] ANCIENT COMEDY. 355 

With respect to characters, it is a common error of comic 
writers, to carry them much beyond real life; and, in¬ 
deed, it is very difficult to determine where wit ends, and 
buffoonery begins. When the miser, for instance, in Plau¬ 
tus, searching the person whom he suspects of having sto¬ 
len his casket, after examining first his right hand, and then 
his left, cries out, ‘show me your third hand,’ every one 
must he sensible of the extravagance. Certain degrees of 
exaggeration are allowed to the comedian; but there are 
limits set to it by nature and good taste, which he must not 
pass. 

Characters, in comedy, ought to be clearly distinguished 
from one another ; but the artificial contrasting of characters, 
and the introducing of them, always impairs, give too affect¬ 
ed an air to the piece. In every sort of composition the per¬ 
fection of art is to conceal art. A masterly writer will, there¬ 
fore, give us his characters, distinguished rather by such 
shades of diversity as are commonly found in society, than 
marked with such strange oppositions, as are readily brought 
into actual contrast in any of the circumstances of life. 

As to the style of comedy, it ought to be elegant, lively, 
and pure; and should generally imitate the tone of polite 
conversation. French writers have generally written their 
comedies in rhyme ; but this is not suitable to comic compo 
sition, for poetry has no connection with the conversations of 
men in common life. One of the most difficult circumstan¬ 
ces in writing comedy, is to maintain throughout a current of 
easy, genteel, unaffected dialogue, without pertness and 
flippancy, or dullness and formality. 

These are the chief observations that occur concerning the 
general principles of this species of dramatic writing, as dis¬ 
tinguished from tragedy. We next proceed to a short histo¬ 
ry of its progress, and the manner in which it has been car¬ 
ried on by authors of different nations. 

The comedy of the ancients was an avowed satire against 
particular persons, who were brought upon the stage by name. 


With respect to characters, what is a common error; what is very diffi¬ 
cult ; and what* illustration follows ? How should characters in comedy be 
distinguished ; but what gives too affected an air to the piece ? As, in eve¬ 
ry sort of composition, the perfection of art is to conceal art, what follows 1 
What should the style of comedy be ? In what have the French general¬ 
ly written their comedies; what is observed of it; and what is a very diffi¬ 
cult task 'l After these general observations, to what do we proceed 1 What 
was the comedy of the ancients; what are examples; and what is said of 
them? 



356 ANCIENT COMEDY. [Lect. 44. 

Such were the plays of Aristophanes; and compositions of 
so singular a nature illustrate well the turbulent licentious¬ 
ness of Athens. The most illustrious personages were then 
exposed to the unrestrained scope of the comic muse. Viva¬ 
city, satire, and buffoonery, are the characteristics of Aristo¬ 
phanes. Though he possessed much strength and genius, 
yet his performances do not afford a very high idea of the 
Attic taste of wit in his age. His ridicule is extravagant; 
his wit is farcical; his personal raillery is biting and cruel; 
and his obscenity is intolerable. 

Soon after the days of Aristophanes, the liberty previously 
indulged by comic poets, of attacking persons by name, was 
prohibited by law. To this the middle order of comedy suc¬ 
ceeded ; in which living characters were still assailed, but 
under fictitious names. Of these comic pieces we have no re¬ 
mains. To them succeeded the new comedy; when the re¬ 
presentations became what they now are—pictures of man 
ners and characters, but not of particular persons. The au¬ 
thor, the most celebrated of this kind, among the Greeks, was 
Menander ; but his writings have perished. 

Of the new comedy of the ancients, the only examples 
that now exist, are the plays of Plautus and Terence. The 
first is eminent for the vis comica, and for an expressive phra¬ 
seology. He bears, however, many marks of the rudeness 
of the dramatic art in his time. He abounds too much with 
low wit; and is by far too quaint, and too full of conceit. 
He possesses, however, both force and vivacity; and his cha¬ 
racters, though somewhat coarse, are well marked. 

Terence is polished, delicate, and elegant. Nothing can 
be more pure and graceful than his language. Decency and 
correctness reign in his dialogues; and his relations have a 
picturesque and beautiful simplicity. His morality, too, is 
unexceptionable. The situations which he introduces are of¬ 
ten tender and interesting ; and many of his sentiments touch 
the heart. He may be considered the founder of serious come¬ 
dy. In his characters and plots, there is a sameness and uni¬ 
formity; and in sprightliness and strength he is also deficient. 


What were the characteristics of Aristophanes ; and what is further ob¬ 
served of him % What was, soon after the day of Aristophanes, prohibited 
by law ; to it what succeeded ; and what is observed of them 1 To them, 
what succeeded ; and in it who was the most celebrated writer ? Of the 
new comedy, whose plays are the only remains-, and of the first, what is 
observed 1 What are the qualities of Terence ; and of him, what is far¬ 
ther remarked 'l 



Lect. 44.] MODERN COMEDY. 357 

Among the moderns, the Spaniards have been remarkable 
for their comic dramatic productions. Lopez de Yega, 
Guillin, and Calderon, are the principal Spanish comic 
writers. The first, who is by far the most famous of them, 
wrote not less than a thousand plays ; and was infinitely 
more irregular than even Shakspeare. He disregarded, 
altogether, every rule of dramatic composition. In one 
play he frequently includes whole years ; and his scenes are 
often, in the same act, in Spain, in Africa, and in Italy. His 
dramas are chiefly historical; and are a mixture of heroic 
speeches, serious incidents, war, ridicule, and buffoonery. 
He jumbles together Christianity, paganism, virtues, vices, 
angels, and gods. Notwithstanding his faults, however, he 
possessed both genius, and imagination. Many of his cha¬ 
racters are well drawn, and his situations are generally 
happy; and from the products of his rich invention, 
dramatic writers of other countries have derived many ad¬ 
vantages. 

French comedies are uniformly allowed to be correct, 
chaste, and decent. France has produced several writers 
of considerable merit, such as Regnard, Dufresny, Dancourt, 
and Marivaux; but the comic writer in whom the French 
glory most, is the famous Moliere. Voltaire pronounces 
him the most eminent comic poet of any age or country; and 
perhaps this decision is not merely the result of partiality. 
Moliere is the satirist of vice and folly only. He has selected 
a great variety of characters peculiar to the times in which 
he lived ; and he has generally placed the ridicule justly. 
He is full of mirth and pleasantry ; and his pleasantry is 
always innocent. His Misanthrope and Tartuffe are a kind 
of dignified comedy, in verse ; and in them vice is exposed in 
the style of elegant and polite satire. In his prose comedies, 
though there is abundance of ridicule, yet there is nothing 
to offend a modest ear, or to throw contempt upon virtue. 

Together with these high qualities, Moliere has his defects 
also. The unravelling of his plots is by no means happy. 

Among the moderns, what is observed of the Spaniards; and who are 
cheir principal writers of comedy 'l What is said of the first, and how is this 
illustrated 1 Notwithstanding his faults, what did he possess ; and what 
illustrations follow 1 What are French comedies allowed to be 1 What 
comic writers of merit has France produced; but in whom do they glory 
most 1 What says Voltaire of him; and of what is he always the satirist 1 
Illustrative of his excellences, what is farther remarked ? Together with 
these high qualities, what defects has Moliere; and of verse comedies, 
and more risible pieces, what is observed I 



358 MODERN COMEDY. [Lect. 44. 

This is frequently brought about with too little preparation, 
and in an improbable manner. Perhaps his attention to the 
full exhibition of characters, lessened his care for the con¬ 
duct of the intrigue. In his verse comedies, he is not 
always sufficiently interesting ; and his speeches frequently 
run into prolixity. In his more risible pieces in prose he 
is often too farcical. But, upon the whole, it may be affirmed, 
that few writers ever attained so perfectly the true end ol 
comedy, as Moliere. His Tartuffe, in the style of grave 
comedy, and his Avare, in the gay, are accounted his two 
capital productions. 

In English comedy we are naturally led to expect a 
greater variety of original characters, and bolder strokes of 
wit and humor, than are to be found elsewhere, among the 
moderns. Humor is, in a great measure, the peculiar pro¬ 
vince of the English nation. The freedom of the govern¬ 
ment, and the unrestrained manners of the people, tend to 
produce singularity. In France, the influence of a despotic 
court has spread uniformity over the nation. Comedy, 
accordingly, flows more freely in England than in France. 
But it is to be deeply regretted, that the comic spirit of 
Britain has been too often disgraced by indecency and licen¬ 
tiousness. 

The first age of English comedy was not, however, in¬ 
fected by this spirit. Neither the plays of Shakspeare, 
nor those of Ben Jonson, can be accused of immoral ten¬ 
dency. Shakspeare’s general character appears to as great 
advantage in his comedies as in his tragedies—a strong, 
fertile, and creative genius, irregular in conduct, but singu¬ 
larly rich and happy in the description of characters and 
manners. Jonson is more regular in the conduct of his pieces, 
but stiff and pedantic ; though not destitute of dramatic 
genius. In the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, much fan¬ 
cy appears, and many fine passages may be found ; but in 
general, they abound with romantic incidents, with unnatural 
characters, and with coarse allusions. 


But, upon the whole', what conclusion may be drawn ; and what are his 
best pieces ! In English comedy, what are we led to expect; and why I 
How is England contrasted with France; but what is, at the same time, 
to be deeply regretted! Of the first age of English comedy, what is 
observed; and of Shakspeare, and Jonson, what is remarked! In the 
plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, what may be found ; but with what do 
they abound! After the restoration, what seized upon comedy as its pe¬ 
culiar province; and how i3 this illustrated ! 



Lect. 44.] MODERN COMEDY. 359 

. After the restoration of Charles II., the licentiousness that 
infested the court seized upon comedy as its peculiar pro¬ 
vince. It was then that the rake first became the hero of 
every play. The ridicule was thrown, not upon vice and folly, 
but much more commonly upon chastity and sobriety. It is 
true, in the end of the piece, he becomes, in some degree* re¬ 
formed ; but throughout the performance, he is set up as the 
model of a fine gentleman ; and the agreeable impression 
made by a sort of sprightly licentiousness, is left upon the 
imagination, as a picture of the pleasurable enjoyment of 
life ; while the reformation passes lightly away, as a matter 
of mere form. To what sort of moral conduct such public 
entertainments tend to form the youth of both sexes, may be 
easily imagined. 

Dryden was the first considerable dramatic writer after 
the restoration. In his comedies there are many strokes of 
genius ; but he is frequently hasty and careless. As his 
object was to please, he followed the current of the times, 
and was uniformly corrupt and licentious. His want of de¬ 
cency was, at times, so gross, as to occasion the prohibition 
of his pieces. 

After Dryden, flourished Cibber, Vanbrugh, Farquhar, 
and Congreve. Cibber possesses sprightliness, and a pert 
vivacity; but is forced and unnatural in his incidents. His 
performances have all sunk into obscurity, excepting 4 The 
Careless Husband,’ and 4 The Provoked Husband.’ Of 
these, the first is remarkable for the easy politeness of the 
dialogue ; and it is tolerably moral in its conduct. The 
latter, in which Cibber was assisted by Vanbrugh, is, per¬ 
haps, the best comedy in the English language. Its cha¬ 
racters are natural, and it abounds with fine painting, and 
happy strokes of humor. 

Wit, spirit, and ease, characterize Sir John Vanbrugh ; 
but he is the most indelicate and immoral of all the English 
comedians. Congreve is, unquestionably, a writer of genius. 
He is witty and sparkling ; and full of character and action. 
Indeed he may be said to overflow with wit. It is often in¬ 
troduced without propriety ; and, in general, it is too pointed 
and apparent for well bred conversation. Farquhar is a 


Though in the end of the piece he becomes, in some degree, reformed; 
yet, what remarks follow 'l What is said of the comedies of Dryden; and 
to what extent did he carry his want of delicacy 'l Who flourished after 
Dryden ; and of Cibber and his performances, what is observed ? What 
characterize Vanbrugh; but what remark follows 'l What is said of Con¬ 
greve, and of Farquhar 'l 



360 MODERN COMEDY. [Lect. 44. 

light and gay writer; iess correct than Congreve, and less 
brilliant; but more easy, and nearer to real life. The two 
least exceptionable of his plays are, ‘ The Recruiting 
Officer,’ and ‘ The Beaux Stratagem.’ But though the 
least exceptionable, yet the uniform tendency of the plays of 
both Congreve and Farquhar, is so manifestly immoral, 
that of the former Lord Karnes, with much force, observed, 
‘If the comedies of Congreve did not rack him with re¬ 
morse, in his last moments, he must have been lost to all 
sense of virtue.’ 

Of late years, a reformation has gradually taken place in 
English comedy. Our writers of comedy now seem ashamed 
of the indecency of their predecessors. If they have not the 
spirit, ease, and wit, of Congreve and Farquhar, they 
have much more important qualities ; for they are both in¬ 
nocent and moral. 

For this improvement we are indebted to the French 
comic writers. The introduction there of a graver comedy, 
attracted the attention, and mei the approbation of English 
writers. From this graver comedy wit and ridicule are 
not excluded ; but it seeks to merit praise by tender and in¬ 
teresting situations. It is sentimental and touches the heart. 
It pleases not so much by the laughter it excites, as by the 
tears of affection which it draws forth. It is not, however, 
to be supposed, that this new species of comedy is to super¬ 
cede, altogether, the comedy that is founded in ridicule. 
There are materials for both; and the drama is the richer 
for the innovation. At least, it may be considered as a mark 
of true politeness and refinement of manners, that theatrical 
exhibitions have become fashionable, which are free from 
indelicate sentiment, and an immoral tendency. 

Of the latter, which are the two least exceptionable pieces; but what re 
mark follows ; and what says Lord Kames 1 Of late years, what improve 
ment has gradually taken place in comedy; and to whom are we indebted 
for it 1 Prom this graver comedy, what are not excluded ; and what fol¬ 
lows 1 What, however, is not to be supposed ; and what remarks follow 1 


ANALYSIS. 


Comedy. 

1. The nature of comedy. 

2. Rules concerning it. 

3. The subject. 

A. A perfect comedy. 

4. The characters. 

5. The style. 

6. Ancient comedy. 


A. Aristophanes. 

B. Plautus—Terence. 

7. Spanish comedy. 

8. French comedy. 

9. English comedy. 

A. Its character. 

B. The principal comic writers. 

10. An improvement in comedy. 






SUPPLEMENT. 


The last half century has been so extremely prolific of men 
of genius in the various departments of science and literature, 
that in order to preserve the adaptation of this work to prac¬ 
tical purposes, a supplement to the critical department has be¬ 
come indispensably necessary. For this reason the author has 
prepared the following pages. He does not, however, pretend 
to embrace all the writers of eminence known to the literary 
public, but only such as have been most distinguished, and 
have contributed most to form the literary character of the age. 

Following the order of the original work, the divines must 
first be noticed ; and of these Paley, Fuller, Hall, and Chal¬ 
mers. are the most noted. The early fathers of the Protestant 
chuwh had, however, done so much in general theology and 
nrp< tical divinity, that comparatively little was left to be done 
by their successors. 

William Paley was of the church of England, and was a 
nan of remarkable vigor and clearness of intellect, and of great 
mginality of character. His nature was homely, shrewd, and 
Denevolent, and these characteristics pervade all his writings. 
* He stands out/ says one of his recent biographers, ‘ in bold 
relief among his brother divines, like a sturdy oak on a lawn 
or parterre—a little hard and cross-grained, but sound, fresh, and 
massive—dwarfing his neighbors with his weight and bulk, and 
intrinsic excellence.’ 

The principal works of Dr. Paley are Elements of Moral and 
Political Philosophy , Evidences of Christianity, Horae Paulince , 
and Natural Theology. His style is simple, and perspicuous to 
a remarkable degree; and hence no reader is ever at a loss 
about his meaning, or finds him too difficult for his compre¬ 
hension. Though plain, and frequently even inelegant, yet his 
vigor and discrimination are such, that he is always read with 
pleasure and instruction. 

It must not be forgotten, however, that the principles incul¬ 
cated in some of this author’s writings, when viewed in the light 

31 



362 


ROBERT HALL. 


of Christianity, will not bear strict scrutiny. The doctrine of 
expediency which pervades his ‘ Elements of Moral Philosophy,’ 
evidently trenches on the authority of Revelation, and lowers 
the standard of public obligation. 

Andrew Fuller, perhaps the best theologian of the age, 
was a dissenting divine of the Baptist persuasion, and one 
whose sagacity enabled him to penetrate the depths of every 
subject he explored ; whose conceptions were so powerful and 
luminous, that what was recondite and original, appeared fa¬ 
miliar—what was intricate, easy and perspicuous in his hands. 
Equally successful in enforcing the practical, in stating the 
theoretical, and discussing the polemical branches of theology, 
without the advantages of early education, he rose to the 
highest distinction among the religious writers of the day, and 
in the midst of a most active and laborious life, left monu¬ 
ments of his piety and genius which will survive to distant 
posterity. 

Fuller’s principal works are, The Gospel Worthy of all 
Acceptation, The Calvinistic and Socinian Systems compared , 
The Gospel its own Witness, Letters on the Doctrine of Univer¬ 
sal Salvation, and An Apology for the late Christian Missions 
to India. In style and manner, as well as in thought, he is 
plain, close, searching, and effective, making no pretensions to 
sublimity, or to classic richness and elegance. His chief aim 
was to pour light into the understanding, to cany conviction 
to the conscience, and through the understanding and con¬ 
science to reach the heart. What was obscure in the Word of 
God, he made it his object - to elucidate ; what seemed at first 
view discrepant, to harmonize; what was controverted, to de¬ 
fend ; and what was of a nature to move the affections, he was 
sure to apply with stirring effect. And all this he did in 
plain, common words; in short, lucid, and often striking and 
pithy sentences, without any desire to play the orator or the 
rhetorician, or to make himself prominent; but with the single 
and obvious intent to enlighten, awaken, convince, persuade, 
and to prepare the soul for heaven. In this respect Fuller 
more nearly resembled Baxter, than any other of the old Eng¬ 
lish divines. 

Robert Hall, another divine of the Baptist persuasion, 
forms a remarkable contrast to the writer last noticed. With 
the highest order of intellect, and the most extensive acquire¬ 
ments, Hall united the utmost rhetorical and even brilliancy of 


THOMAS CHALMERS. 363 

imagination. His solid learning and unfeigned piety gave a 
weight and impressiveness to all he uttered and wrote, while his 
classic taste enabled him to clothe his thoughts and imagery in 
language the most appropriate, beautiful, and commanding. 
Those who listened to his pulpit ministrations were entranced 
by his fervid eloquence, which truly disclosed the ‘ beauty of 
holiness,’ and melted by the awe and fervor with which he 
dwelt on the mysteries of death and eternity. 

Hall’s printed writings were chiefly in the form of pamphlets 
and sermons. His earliest production was, Christianity con¬ 
sistent with a Love of Freedom. This was soon followed by 
his eloquent and powerful treatise, entitled, An Apology for 
the Freedom of the Press —a work which contributed more to 
counteract the influence of the political opinions and intoler¬ 
ance of Bishop Horsley, than any other production of the 
period. To these two treatises succeeded three sermons, re¬ 
spectively entitled, Modern Infidelity considered with respect to 
its Influence on Society, Refections on War, and The Sentiments 
proper to the Present Crisis. The first of these discourses was 
designed to stem the torrent of infidelity which had set in upon 
England with the French Revolution, and is no less remark¬ 
able for profound thought than for the elegance of its style and 
the splendor of its imagery; and the last possesses all the fire 
and energy of a martial lyric or war-song. 

A sermon on the death of the Princess Charlotte, written 
much later in life, is justly considered one of the “most impres¬ 
sive, touching, and lofty of his discourses. But the published 
writings of Hall give but a limited and inadequate picture of 
his varied talents; yet they are so highly finished, and display 
such a combination of different powers—of logical precision, 
metaphysical acuteness, practical sense and sagacity, with a 
rich and luxuriant imagination, and all the graces of composi¬ 
tion—that they must be considered among the most valuable 
contributions made to modern literature. 

Thomas Chalmers was of the Presbyterian church, and the 
most distinguished of recent Scotch divines. ‘ His style,’ says 
one of his critics, ‘is far from being correct or elegant—it is 
often turgid, loose, and declamatory, vehement beyond the 
bounds of good taste, and disfigured by a peculiar and by no 
means graceful phraseology.’ These blemishes are, however, 
more than atoned for by his piety and eloquence, the origin¬ 
ality of many of his views, and the wonderful force and ardor 
of hie mind. His ‘ Astronomical Discourses’ contain passages 


364 


WILLIAM RUSSELL. 


of great sublimity and beauty, and even the most humble and 
prosaic subjects, treated by him, become attractive and poeti¬ 
cal. His triumphs are those of genius, aided by the deepest 
conviction of the importance of the truths he inculcates. 

The works of Dr. Chalmers are very numerous, and embrace 
a great variety of subjects; but the most important are, his 
Natural Theology, Evidences of Christianity, Moral Philosophy, 
Congregational Sermons, Political Economy, and Astronomical 
Discourses. In all his works there are great energy and earn¬ 
estness, accompanied with a vast variety of illustrations. His 
knowledge was extensive, including science no less than litera¬ 
ture, the learning of the philosopher with the fancy of the 
poet, and a familiar acquaintance with the habits, feelings, and 
daily life of the poor and middle classes of society. The ardor 
with which he pursues any favorite topic, presenting it to the 
reader or hearer in every possible point of view, and investing 
it with the charms of a rich poetical imagination, is a peculiar 
feature in his intellectual character, and one well calculated to 
arrest attention. It gave peculiar effect to his pulpit ministra¬ 
tions ; for by concentrating his attention on one or two points 
at a time, and pressing these home with almost unexampled 
zeal and animation, a distinct and vivid impression was con¬ 
veyed to the mind, unbroken by any extraneous or discursive 
matter. His pictures have little or no background—the prin¬ 
cipal figure or conception fills the canvas. 


HISTORY. 

The late historical works in our language have, in many re¬ 
spects, surpassed those of former times. Access has been 
more readily obtained to all public documents, and private 
collections have been, with an enlightened liberality, thrown 
open to their inspection. Of writers in this department of 
literature, those deserving particular notice are, Russell, Mit- 
ford, Gillies, Roscoe, Lingard, Hallam, and the American 
historian, George Bancroft. 

William Russell is the author of a very important histori¬ 
cal work, entitled A History of Modern Europe. It is a mas¬ 
terly production of its kind, and has been, from the time of its 
publication, the standard authority on the subject embraced 
within its range ; and though not remarkable for any peculiar 
excellence, either in style or manner, it is still written in clear, 



WILLIAM ROSCOE. 365 

simple, and perspicuous language, and is uniformly read with 
care and pleasure. 

William Mitford is the author of a most elaborate and 
comprehensive historical work, entitled, The History of Greece, 
from the Earliest Period. This author was a warm admirer ol 
the monarchical government, and this bias led him to over-color 
the evils of popular institutions, and to be so unjust to the 
Athenian people, as to term them, on one occasion, ‘ the sov¬ 
ereign beggars of Athens.’ But notwithstanding all his preju¬ 
dice in favor of monarchy, there is still so much acuteness and 
spirit in his political disquisitions, and his narrative of events is 
so animated, full, and distinct, that Lord Byron not only con¬ 
sidered his history the best modern history of Greece ever 
written, but the author himself superior, as an historical writer, 
to any other modern historian whatever. 

John Gillies, an historian contemporary with Mitford, pub¬ 
lished, in 1786, The History of Ancient Greece, its Colonies 
and Conquests, in two quarto volumes. In his preface the au¬ 
thor says, ‘ The history of Greece exposes the dangerous tur¬ 
bulence of democracy, and arraigns the despotism of tyrants. 
By describing the incurable evils inherent in every republican 
policy, it evinces the inestimable benefits resulting to liberty 
itself from the lawful dominion of hereditary kings, and the 
steady operation of well regulated monarchy.’ From this pas¬ 
sage it is evident that the monarchical spirit of Dr. Gillies was 
scarcely less decided than that of Mitford, though expressed 
with less zeal and plainness. The work, however, notwith¬ 
standing this defect in the view of an intelligent American 
reader, is executed with much ability and care; and in the in¬ 
vestigation of early Grecian literature, and the particular his¬ 
tory of the Grecian colonies, it is, perhaps, inferior to no other 
Grecian history extant. 

William Roscoe’s first great literary performance was a 
history of the life and times of Lorenzo de Medici, under the 
title of The Life of Lorenzo de Medici, called the Magnificent; 
the work was highly successful, and at once elevated the 
author into the proud position of one of the most popular 
writers of the day. As a sequel to this important production 
he, some years afterwards, wrote The Life and Pontificate of 
Leo the Tenth , which, though carefully prepared, and en¬ 
riched with much new information, did not meet with the same 

31* 


366 


HENRY HALLAM. 


success that had attended his former work. It necessarily em¬ 
braced much that pertained to the history of the Reformation, 
and consequently involved many questions of subtle disputation, 
as well as many topics of character and conduct, on which it 
was very difficult for a writer of great candor and discernment 
to satisfy either of the contending parties. These two great 
works are, however, written in a chaste, easy, and flowing style, 
contain a full account of the revival of letters, and fill up the 
blank between Gibbon’s ‘ Decline and Fall of the Roman Em¬ 
pire,’ and Robertson’s ‘ Charles the Fifth.’ 

John Lingard, a clergyman of the Romish church, is the 
author of a History of England from the Invasion by the 
Romans down to the Abdication of James the Second. To 
talents of a high order, both as respects acuteness of analysis 
and powers of description and narration, Dr. Lingard added 
unconquerable industry and access to sources of information 
new and important. He collected his materials from original 
historians and records, by which his narrative receives a fresh¬ 
ness of character, and a stamp of originality not to be found in 
any other general history of England. He is generally more 
impartial than Hume, or even Robertson; but it must not be 
denied that his religious opinions have, in some cases, perverted 
the fidelity of his history, leading him to palliate many atrocities 
of the Romish church, and to darken the shades in the char¬ 
acter of Cranmer, and others connected with the English 
Reformation. 

Henry Hallam, the greatest historical writer of this period, 
is the author of several elaborate and very important works. 
The first was a View of the State of Europe during the Middle 
Ages, being an account of the progress of Europe from the 
middle of the fifth, to the end of the fifteenth century. His 
next was The Constitutional History of England from the 
Accession of Henry the Seventh, to the Death of George the 
Second; and the third and last, an Introduction to the Lit¬ 
erature of Europe in the Fifteenth, Sixteenth, and Seventeenth 
Centuries. With vast stores of knowledge, and indefatigable 
application, Hallam possessed a clear and independent judg¬ 
ment, and a grave and impressive style, yet enriched with oc¬ 
casional imagery and rhetorical graces. His ‘ Introduction to 
the Literature of Europe’ is a great monument of his erudition. 
His knowledge of the language and literature of each nation of 
which he treats, is critical and profound, and his opinions are 


JAMES BOSWELL. 


367 

conveyed in a style remarkable for its succinctness and perspicu¬ 
ous beauty. Few literary works in tbe English language can 
be studied with more pleasure and profit than this important 
production ; and we therefore earnestly recommend it to all 
who desire to acquire a familiarity with the important and in¬ 
teresting subject which it embraces. 


BIOGRAPHY. 

Biography, as a species of composition that introduces us to 
an intimate personal acquaintance with its subject, has recently 
assumed a character of the deepest interest. In this depart¬ 
ment of writing, a number of late authors have remarkably ex¬ 
celled ; particularly Boswell, Prior, Irving, and Prescott. It 
should be remarked, however, that the two American authors 
here mentioned, have extended their works beyond the strict 
biographical range, and have embraced so much of the history 
of the period during which their heroes flourished, as to as¬ 
sume rather the character of historians than of biosrra- 
pliers. This does not, however, in any degree detract from 
the intrinsic merit of their works ; for few productions have 
ever appeared developing properties of more lasting interest 
than Irving's Columbus, or Prescott's Ferdinand and Isabella. 
In ease and elegance of style, glowing imagery, and poetic 
fervor of description, there is not to be found in any literary 
performance in the language any thing that surpasses the former 
of these great productions. Prescott’s work discovers a greater 
extent of knowledge, and deeper research, and may, on that 
account, be more valuable than Irving’s ; but then it wants the 
romantic interest and imaginative beauty of the life of the 
great Genoese. 

James Boswell, in his Life of Dr. Samuel Johnson, has 
produced a work that may be regarded as nearly a perfect 
model in the biographical department of writing. The work 
introduces us to a great variety of living characters, who speak, 
walk, and think, in our presence; and besides furnishing us 
with useful, affecting, and ennobling lessons of morality, live 
over again the past for the delight and entertainment of count¬ 
less generations of readers. 

Boswell early became so deeply impressed with admiration 
of the character of Dr. Johnson, that he attached himself to 
the rugged moralist, soothed and flattered his irritability, sub- 



368 


JAMES PRIOR. 


mitted to his literary despotism and caprice; and sedulously 
cultivating his acquaintance and society whenever his engage¬ 
ments would permit, he took faithful and copious notes of all 
his conversations. To write, out these notes he sometimes sat 
up three nights in a week, and hence there is a freshness and 
truth about both his notes and his impressions which attest 
their fidelity. He even accompanied Johnson to the Hebrides, 
and made a record of each day’s occurrences, and of the most 
striking parts of his conversations. From such untiring devo¬ 
tion to his subject, Boswell became able to show how much 
wit, wisdom, and sagacity, joined to real worth and benevo¬ 
lence, were concealed under the personal oddities and ungainly 
exterior of Johnson. Never before had there been produced 
so complete a portraiture of any single individual; and every 
similar attempt since made has comparatively failed. It is 
said that the whole time spent by Boswell in the society of his 
illustrious friend, did not exceed nine months ; yet so diligent 
was he in writing and inquiring—so thoroughly did he devote 
himself to his subject, that notwithstanding his limited oppor¬ 
tunities, and his moderate abilities, he was able to produce 
what all mankind have agreed in considering the best biography 
ever written. 

James Prior is the author of two very important biogra¬ 
phies, each of which is written with great candor and skill. 
He did not, indeed, enjoy the advantages of that personal in¬ 
tercourse with his subject out of which arose the life-like fea¬ 
ture of Boswell’s Johnson; but so far as study and investiga¬ 
tion would afford him aid, he taxed them to their utmost 
extent. The first of these was The Life of Edmund Burke, 
and the other, The Life of Oliver Goldsmith. Prior being 
a countryman of these two illustrious men, was naturally 
prompted in his patient and diligent search after information 
concerning them, by national feelings and admiration. Gold¬ 
smith had been dead half a century before the inquiries of his 
biographer began; and yet he has collected a vast number of 
new facts, and placed the amiable and amusing part in full 
length and in full dress before the public. ‘ The Life of 
Burke’ is no less faithful. 


INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

The two most distinguished names that this period presents 
in the department of intellectual philosophy, are Dugald 


THOMAS BROWN. 369 

Stewart and Dr. Thomas Brown. The former embraced the 
theory of intellectual philosophy inculcated by Dr. Reid, and 
by his essays and treatises, no less than by his lectures, gave 
additional grace and popularity to the system. Dr. Brown 
deviated from the theory of Reid in some immaterial points. 

Dugald Stewart’s attention was turned, in the early part 
of his studies, almost exclusively to mathematical science; and 
such was his proficiency in that department of learning, that 
before he reached the twenty-first year of his age he was ap¬ 
pointed professor of mathematics in the university of Edin¬ 
burgh. Intellectual and moral philosophy were, however, 
subjects more congenial to his taste, and he, accordingly, at 
the resignation of Dr. Ferguson, accepted the philosophic 
chair in the same institution. As a lecturer, his popularity 
was almost without a parallel—his taste, dignity, and elo¬ 
quence, rendering him both fascinating and impressive. His 
writings are marked by the same characteristics, and are read 
with pleasure even by those who have no great partiality for 
the philosophical studies in which he excelled. They consist 
of Philosophy of the Human Mind, Philosophical Essays, A 
Dissertation on the Progress of Metaphysical and Ethical Phi - 
losophy, and a View of the Active and Moral Powers of Man. 
He also published, a short time before his death, Outlines of 
Moral Philosophy, which fully sustained the popularity of his 
previous works. 

Dr. Thomas Brown was the successor of Stewart as pro¬ 
fessor of moral and intellectual philosophy in the university of 
Edinburgh. His taste for metaphysics was first excited by 
the perusal of Professor Stewart’s ‘ Philosophy of the Human 
Mind and his appointment to his professorship, the duties of 
which he continued to discharge till his death, amidst universal 
approbation and success, seems to have filled his destiny. As 
a philosopher he was acute and searching, and a master of the 
power of analysis. His style wants the redundancy of that of 
Stewart, but is also enlivened with many eloquent passages, in 
which there is often a large infusion of the tenderest feeling. 
He quoted largely from the poets, and was sometimes too 
flowery in his illustrations. His Lectures on the Philosophy of 
the Human Mind, are highly popular, and are used as a class- 
book in many universities. In some of his views he differed 
from both Reid and Stewart; and some philosophers consider 
that he rendered a new and important service to mental sci- 


370 


SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

ence by what he calls ‘ secondary laws of suggestion or asso¬ 
ciation/ by which the action of general law is much modified. 


FICTITIOUS WRITING. 

In fictitious writing, the last half century has been rich and 
prolific ; but in the period immediately preceding it, works of 
this class had greatly degenerated from their original models. 
It is true the highly-wrought tenderness and pathos of Rich¬ 
ardson, and the models of real life, wit, and humor in Fielding, 
Smollett, and Sterne, found a few excellent imitations in the 
writings of Mackenzie, Moore, Cumberland, and a few others ; 
but from their age this species of literature degenerated so 
rapidly, until just before the age of Sir Walter Scott, that when 
that wonderful genius commenced his brilliant gallery of por¬ 
traits of all classes, living and historical, it had sunk to a point 
even of offensiveness. He, however, soon placed fictitious 
composition again in the ascendant, and never in its palmiest 
days of chivalrous romance or modern fashion, did it command 
more devoted admiration, or shine with greater lustre. 

Sir Walter Scott, the originator of the school of fiction 
which has since been so extensively imitated, succeeded in 
working in the public mind a rapid and important change ; and 
as curiosity was stimulated and supplied in such unexampled 
profusion from this master-source, the most exorbitant devour- 
ers of novels soon learned to look with aversion and disgust 
on the painted and unreal mockeries which had formerly de¬ 
luded them. It appears to be a law of our nature, that recre¬ 
ation and amusement are as necessary to the mind as exercise 
is to the body; and in this light Sir Walter Scott must be 
viewed as a very great benefactor of his species. He has sup¬ 
plied a copious and almost exhaustless source of amusement, 
as innocent as it is delightful. He revived the glory of past 
ages; illustrated the landscape and the history of his native 
country ; painted the triumphs of patriotism and virtue, and 
the meanness and misery of vice; awakened our best and 
kindest feelings in favor of suffering and erring humanity—of 
the low-born and the persecuted, the peasant, the beggar, and 
the Jew ; he has furnished an intellectual banquet, as rich as 
it is various and picturesque from his curious learning, extensive 
observation, forgotten manners, and decaying superstitions— 
the whole embellished with the light of a vivid imagination, 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


371 


and a correct and gracefully-regulated taste. In the number 
and variety of his conceptions and characters, Scott is entitled 
to take his seat beside the greatest masters of fiction of any 
age or country. Some have, perhaps, excelled him in particu¬ 
lar qualities of the novelist, but none in their harmonious and 
rich combinations. 

The long array of immortal fictions of Scott can only be 
compared with the dramas of Shakspeare, as presenting an 
endless variety of original character and scenes, historical 
situations and adventures. They are marked by the same uni¬ 
versal and genial sympathies, allied to every form of humanity, 
and free from all selfish egotism or moral obliquity. In paint¬ 
ing historical personages or events, these two great masters 
evinced a kindred taste, and not dissimilar powers. The high¬ 
est intellectual traits and imagination of Shakspeare were, it is 
true, not approached by Scott: the dramatist looked inwardly 
upon man and nature with a more profound and searching 
philosophy : he could effect more with his five acts than Scott 
could with his two volumes. The novelist only pictured to the 
eye what his great prototype stamped on the heart and feel¬ 
ings ; yet both were great moral teachers, without seeming to 
teach. They were brothers in character and in genius, and 
they poured out their imaginative treasures with a calm easy 
strength and conscious mastery, of which the world has seen 
no other examples. 

To decide upon the relative merit of Scott’s fictitious works 
would be a very difficult task. The subjects are so various, 
that any comparative criticism would seem almost invidious. 
Those, however, that are most generally preferred, are The 
Antiquary, Rob Roy, The Heart of Mid-Lothian, The Bride 
of Lammermoor, Ivanhoe, and The Fortunes of Nigel. 

In ‘ The Antiquary ’ Scott displayed his thorough knowledge 
of the middle and lower ranks of Scottish life. He confined 
his story chiefly to a small fishing town and one or two country 
mansions. The amount of curious reading, knowledge of local 
history and antiquities, power of description, and breadth of 
humor in this work, render it one of the most perfect of the 
author’s novels. A healthy moral tone also pervades the 
whole—a clear and bracing atmosphere of real life, and striking 
lessons of practical benevolence. 

* Rob Roy ’ is most remarkable for those bold and striking 
sketches with which it abounds, and which are hit off with the 
careless freedom of a master. It possesses, perhaps, more 
witching and romantic interest than elaborate and finished 


372 


SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


pictures. The character of Bailie Nicoll Jarvie is, however, 
one of the author’s happiest conceptions ; and the idea of car¬ 
rying him to the wild rugged mountains, among outlaws and 
desperadoes—at the same time that he retained a keen relish 
of the comforts of the. Salt-market of Glasgow, and a due sense 
of his dignity as a magistrate—completed the ludicrous effect 
of the picture. 

‘ The Heart of Mid-Lothian ’ is as essentially national in 
spirit, language, and actors, as ‘ Rob Roy,’ but it is the na¬ 
tionality of the Lowlands. No other author but Scott could 
have dwelt so long and with such circumstantial minuteness on 
the daily life and occurrences of a family like that of Davie 
Deans, the cow-feeder, without disgusting his polite readers 
with what must have seemed vulgar and uninteresting. Like 
Burns, he made ‘ rustic life and poverty ’ 

Grow beautiful beneath his touch. 

Ladies, in their halls and saloons, traced with interest and de¬ 
light the pages that recorded the pious firmness and humble 
heroism of Jeanie Deans, and the sufferings and disgrace of 
her unfortunate sister; and who shall say that in thus uniting 
different ranks in one bond of fellow-feeling, and exhibiting to 
the high and wealthy the virtues that often dwell with the 
lowly and obscure, Scott was not fulfilling one of the loftiest 
and most sacred missions upon earth ? 

* The Bride of Lammermoor’ is a story of still more sus¬ 
tained and overwhelming pathos than the ‘ Heart of Mid- 
Lothian.’ It is one of the most finished of Scott’s tales, pre¬ 
senting a unity and entireness of plot and action, as if the 
whole were bound together by that dreadful destiny which 
hangs over the principal actors, and impels them irresistibly to 
destruction. ‘ In this tale, above all other modern productions, 
we see embodied the dark spirit of fatalism—that spirit that 
breathes in the writings of the Greek tragedians when they 
traced the persecuting vengeance of Destiny against the houses 
of Laius and of Atreus.’ 

‘ Ivanhoe ’ is the most brilliant of all Scott’s pure romances, 
and is, perhaps, the most splendid performance of the kind in 
any literature. The scene being laid in England, and in the 
age of Richard the First, the author had to draw largely on 
his fancy and invention, and was deprived of those attractive 
auxiliaries of every-day life, speech, and manners, which had 
lent so great a charm to his Scottish novels. In this work we 
have the remoteness of antiquity, the old Saxon halls and 


SIR WALTER SCOTT. 373 

feasts, the resuscitation of chivalry in all its pomp and pictu¬ 
resqueness, the realization of our boyish dreams about Coeur- 
de-Lion, Robin Hood, and Sherwood Forest, with the grassy 
glades, and sylvan sports, and impenetrable foliage. We are 
presented too with a series of the most splendid pictures 
imaginable—with the dark shades of cruelty, vice, and treason, 
and the brightness of heroic courage, dauntless fortitude, and 
uncorrupted faith and purity. The thrilling interest of the 
story is another of the merits of ‘ Ivanhoe.’ In the hall of 
Cedric, at the tournament or siege, we never cease to watch 
over the fate of Rowena and the Disinherited Knight; and the 
steps of the gentle Rebecca®—the meek yet high-souled Jew¬ 
ess—are traced with still deeper and holier feeling. 

‘The Fortunes of Nigel,’the last of Scott’s novels to be 
particularly noticed, affords a complete panorama of the times 
of James the First, and one too executed with wonderful vigor 
and truth. The fulness and variety of. the details show how 
closely the author had studied the annals of that period, par¬ 
ticularly all that related to the city of London. His account 
of Alsatia surpasses even the scenes in which Ben Jonson de¬ 
scribes similar objects ; and none of his historical likenesses 
are more faithful, more justly drawn, or more richly colored, 
than his portrait of the poor, and proud, and pedantic King 
James himself. 

Sir Walter Scott commenced his literary career as a poet; 
and after publishing various minor poems, chiefly attractive 
from their local interest, he at length astonished the literary 
world by producing the first of his great poems, The Lay of 
the Last Minstrel. This was followed, in the course of a few 
years, by Marmion, and The Lady of the Lake. These works 
at once placed his name in the first rank among the living 
poets ; but his subsequent poems, such as Rokeby, The Vision 
of Don Roderick, and The Lord of the Isles , rather detracted 
from his poetic reputation than enhanced it. 

In ‘ The Lay of the Last Minstrel ’ the author’s legendary 
lore, his love of the chivalrous and supernatural, and his de¬ 
scriptive powers, are fully brought into play; and though he 
afterwards improved in versatility and freedom, he achieved 
nothing which might not have been predicted from this first » 
performance. His conception of the minstrel was inimitable, 
even by those who were opposed to the irregularity of the bal¬ 
lad style. The poem is a Border story of the sixteenth cen¬ 
tury, related by a minstrel, the last of his race. The character 
of the aged minstrel, and that of Margaret of Branksome, are 

32 


374 


SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


very finely drawn. Deloraine, a coarse Border chief, or moss¬ 
trooper, is also a vigorous portrait; and in the description of 
the march of the English army, the personal combat with 
Musgrove and the other feudal accessories of the piece, we 
have finished pictures of the olden times. The introductory 
lines to each canto form an exquisite setting to the dark feudal 
tale, and contributed greatly to the popularity of the poem. 

‘ Marmion ’ is a tale of Flodden-Field, the fate of the hero 
being connected with that memorable engagement. The poem 
does not possess the unity and completeness of ‘ The Lay of 
the Last Minstrel;’ but while it has greater faults, it has also 
greater beauties. Nothing can be more strikingly picturesque 
than the two opening stanzas of this romantic poem. The battle 
of Flodden, and the death of Marmion, are among Scott’s 
most spirited descriptions. The former is related as seen from 
a neighboring hill; and the progress of the action—the hurry, 
impetuosity, and confusion of the fight below, as the different 
armies rally and are repulsed—is given with such animation, 
that the whole scene is brought before the reader with the 
vividness of reality. The hero receives his death-wound, and 
is borne off the field. The description, detached from the con¬ 
text, loses much of its interest; but the mingled effects of 
mental agony and physical suffering, of remorse and death, on 
a bad but brave spirit trained to war, is described with startling 
sublimity. 

‘ The Lady of the Lake ’ is more richly picturesque than 
either the * Lay ’ or ‘ Marmion,’ and the plot is more regular 
and interesting. The subject is a common Highland irruption; 
but at a point where the neighborhood of the Lowlands affords 
the best contrast of manners—where the scenery affords the 
noblest subject of description—and where the wild clan is so 
near to the court, that their robberies can be connected with 
the romantic adventures of a disguised king, an exiled lord, 
and a high-born beauty. The whole narrative is very fine, and 
the work was the most popular of the author’s poems. The 
description of the single combat between Fitz James and Rod¬ 
erick Dhu, is equal, if not superior, to any thing else of the kind 
in the whole range of literature; and the portrait of Helen 
Douglas is exquisitely delicate. 

The transcendent genius, the fame, and the wide-spread 
popularity of Sir Walter Scott as a novelist, naturally drew 
after him a vast number of imitators, the most successful of 
whom is the prolific James. With genius incomparably inferior 


JAMES.—THEODORE HOOK. 375 

to his great master, he has yet succeeded in acquiring a popu¬ 
larity both extensive and durable. If he had not written so 
much, but had concentrated his powers on a few congenial 
subjects or periods of history, he might have attained to the 
highest honors of this department of composition. As it is, 
he has furnished many light, agreeable, and picturesque books— 
none of questionable tendency—and all superior to the general 
run of novels of the present day. Of his numerous works, the 
best, perhaps, are : Richelieu , Darnley, Mary of Burgundy, 
The Huguenot, A Gentleman of the Old School, A History of 
the Life and Times of Richard Coeur de Lion, The False Heir, 
and Arabella Stuart. A late critic, speaking of this author, 
says : ‘ There seems to be no limit to his ingenuity, his faculty 
of getting up scenes and incidents, dilemmas, artifices, contre¬ 
temps, battles, skirmishes, disguises, escapes, trials, combats, 
adventures. He accumulates names, dresses, implements of 
war and peace, official retinues, and the whole paraphernalia 
of customs and costumes, with astonishing alacrity. He appears 
to have exhausted every imaginable situation, and to have de¬ 
scribed every available article of attire on record. What he 
must have passed through—what triumphs he must have en¬ 
joyed—what exigencies he must have experienced—what love 
he must have suffered—what a grand wardrobe his brain must 
be ! He has made some poetical and dramatic efforts, but this 
irresistible tendency to pile up circumstantial particulars is fatal 
to those forms of art which demand intensity of passion. In 
stately narratives of chivalry and feudal grandeur, precision 
and reiteration are desirable rather than injurious—as we have 
the most perfect accuracy and finish in a picture of ceremo¬ 
nials ; and here James is supreme. One of his court ro¬ 
mances is a book of brave sights and heraldic magnificence— 
it is the next thing to moving at our leisure through some su¬ 
perb and august procession.’ 

Theodore Hook was a novelist of an entirely different char¬ 
acter from Scott and James. He commenced his literary career 
at the early age of seventeen, as a dramatic author, and pro¬ 
duced, in rapid succession, a series of musical farces, most of 
which were unusually successful. These, together with his 
wonderful conversational powers, immediately introduced him 
to familiar intercourse with circles of society in high life, all of 
whose vices he unfortunately adopted along with their polish 
and refinement. 

Hook’s earliest fictions were his three series of Sayings and 


376 THEODORE HOOK. 

Doings, the design of which was to exhibit the characteristics 
of English fashionable life, and the ridiculous and awkward 
assumption of them by persons in the middle rank of society. 
The series of ‘ Sayings and Doings ’ were speedily followed by 
Maxwell, The Life of Sir David Baird, The Parson's Daugh¬ 
ter, Love and Pride, Gilbert Gurney, Jack Brag, Precepts 
and Practice, Births, Deaths, and Marriages, and Fathers a,nd 
Sons ; and as the author advanced in his career, he extended 
his canvas, and sketched a greater variety of scenes and 
figures. Their general character, however, remained the same : 
too much importance was, in all of them, attached to the mere 
externals of social intercourse, as if the use of the ‘ silver fork,’ 
or the etiquette of the drawing-room, were the chief end of 
English society. The life of the accomplished author gives a 
sad and moral interest to his tales. He obtained the distinction 
he coveted, in the notice and favor of the great and the fash¬ 
ionable world ; but for this he sacrificed the fruits of his industry 
and the independence of genius : he lived in a round of 
distraction and gayety, illuminated by his wit and talents, and 
he died a premature death, the victim of disappointment, debt, 
and misery. This personal example is the true ‘ handwriting 
on the wall,’ to warn genius and integrity in the middle^ classes 
against hunting after or copying the vices of fashionable dissi¬ 
pation and splendor. 

The works of Hook are very unequal, and none of them, 
perhaps, display the rich and varied powers of his conversation. 
He was thoroughly acquainted with English life in the higher 
and middle ranks, and his early familiarity with the stage had 
taught him the effect of dramatic situations and pointed dia¬ 
logue. The theatre, however, is not always a good school for 
taste in composition, and Hook’s witty and tragic scenes and 
contrasts of character are often too violent in tone, and too 
little discriminated. Hence, though his knowledge of high life 
was undoubted, and his powers of observation rarely surpassed, 
his pictures of existing manners seem to wear an air of carica¬ 
ture, imparted insensibly by the peculiar habits and exuberant 
fancy of the novelist. His pathos is often overdone, and his 
mirth and joyousness carried into the regions of farce. He is 
very felicitous in exposing all ridiculous pretences and absurd 
affectation, and in such scenes his polished ridicule and the 
practical sagacity of the man of the world, conversant with its 
different ranks and artificial distinctions, are strikingly apparent. 
We may collect from his novels as correct a notion of English 
society in certain spheres in the nineteenth century, as Field- 


SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 377 

ing’s works display of the manners of the eighteenth. To 
regularity of fable he made little pretension, and he paid little 
attention to style. He aimed at delineation of character—at 
striking scenes and situations—at reflecting the language and 
habits of actual life—and all this he accomplished, in some of 
his works, with a success that produced many rivals, but no 
superior. 

Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer was, in the earlier part of his 
career as a novelist, of the school of Hook, but he imparted to 
his subjects the novelty and attraction of strong contrast, by 
conducting his fashionable characters into the purlieus of vice 
and slang society, which also in its turn became the rage, and 
provoked imitation. Dandies' and highwaymen were painted 
en beau , and the Newgate Calendar was rifled for heroes to 
figure in the novel and on the stage. This unnatural absurdity 
soon palled upon the public taste, and Bulwer did justice to 
his high and undoubted talents by his historical and more le¬ 
gitimate romances. 

Of the first class of Bulwer’s novels, Pelham , The Disowned, 
Devereux, Paul Clifford, and Eugene Aram, are the principal. 
These novels are all, with the exception of the last, highly- 
colored tales of love and passion, calculated to excite and en- 
flame, and are evidently based on admiration of the peculiar 
genius and seductive errors of Lord Byron. ‘ Pelham’ is full 
of brilliant and witty writing, sarcastic levity, representations 
of the manners of the great, piquant remarks, and scenes of 
deep and romantic interest. There is a want of artistic skill in 
the construction of the story, for the tragic and satirical parts 
are not harmoniously blended ; but the picture of a man of 
fashion, so powerfully drawn, is irresistibly attractive, and 
hence the great popularity of the work at the time of its pub¬ 
lication. ‘ The Disowned’ was intended by the author to 
contain ‘ scenes of more exciting interest and vivid colorino; 
thoughts less superficially expressed, passions more energeti¬ 
cally called forth, and a more sensible and pervading moral 
tendency.’ The work was considered to fulfil the promise of 
the preface, though it did not attain to the popularity of 
‘ Pelham.’ 

‘ Devereux’ is a more finished performance than either of its 
predecessors. * The lighter portion does not dispute the field 
with the deeper and more sombre, but follows gracefully by its 
side, relieving and heightening it. We move indeed among 
the great, but it is the great of other times; amidst manners, 

32 * 


SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 


nis 

perhaps, as frivolous as those of this day, but which the gentle 
touch of time has already invested with an antiquarian dignity : 
the passions of men, the machinery of great motives and uni¬ 
versal feelings, occupy the front; the humors, the affections, 
the petty badges of sects and individuals, retire into the 
shadow of the background : no under-current of persiflage or 
epicurean indifference checks the flow of that mournful en¬ 
thusiasm which refreshes its pictures of life with living waters.’ 
Of ‘ Paul Clifford,’ the hero is a romantic highwayman, familiar 
with the haunts of low vice and dissipation ; but he is afterwards 
transformed and elevated by the influence of love. Parts of this 
work are ably written; but the general effect of the novel was 
very injurious to the public taste. ‘ Eugene Aram’ is a tale 
founded on the history of the English murderer of that name. 
In this work the author depicts the manners of the middle 
rank of life, and was highly successful in awakening curiosity 
and interest, and in painting scenes of tenderness, pathos, and 
distress. The character of the sordid but ingenious Aram is 
idealized by the fancy of the novelist He is made an enthusi¬ 
astic student and amiable visionary. The humbling part of his 
crime was, he says, ‘ its low calculations, its poor defence, its 
paltry trickery, its mean hypocrisy: these made its chiefest 
penance.’ Unconscious that detection was close at hand, 
Aram is preparing to wed an interesting and noble-minded 
woman, the generous Madeline; and the scenes connected 
with this ill-fated passion possess a strong and tragical interest. 
Throughout the whole work are scattered many beautiful moral 
reflections and descriptions, imbued with poetical feeling and 
expression. 

Bulwer, after the production of a few intermediate works, 
now turned his attention towards the composition of historical 
novels; and in this department of writing he has, perhaps, 
never been excelled. The Last Lays of Pompeii, Rienzi, The 
Last of the Barons, and The Last of the Saxons, will endure as 
monuments of his genius and fame as long as English literature 
prevails. 

The works of this gifted author, taken together, fully re¬ 
alize his own description of genius. They unfold ‘ an Iris in 
the skies,’ in which are displayed the rich colors and forms of 
the imagination, mixed and interfused with dark spots and un¬ 
sightly shadows—with conceits, affectations, and egotism. Like 
his model, Byron, he paints vividly and beautifully, but often 
throws away his colors on unworthy objects, and leaves many 
of his figures unfinished. The clear, guiding judgment, well- 


CHARLES DICKENS. 379 

balanced mind, and natural feeling of Scott, are wanting ; but 
Bulwer’s language and imagery are often exquisite, and his 
power of delineating, certain classes of character and manner, 
superior to that of any of his contemporaries. 

Charles Dickens, as a modern writer of fiction, yields only 
to Sir Walter Scott. He deals chiefly with low-life and na¬ 
tional peculiarities, especially such as spring up in the streets 
and resorts of crowded cities. The varied surface of English 
society, in the ordinary and middle ranks, has afforded this 
close observer and humorist a rich harvest of characters, scenes, 
and adventures—of follies, oddities, vices, and frailties, of 
which he has made a copious and happy use. In comic 
humor, blended with tenderness and pathos, and united to un¬ 
rivalled powers of observation and description, Dickens has no 
equal among his contemporaries; and as a painter of actual 
life, he seems to be the most genuine English novelist we have 
had since Fielding. His faults lie upon the surface. Like 
Bulwer, he delights in strong coloring and contrasts—the 
melodrame of fiction : —and is too prone to caricature. The 
artist, delighting in the exhibition of his skill, is apparent in 
many of his scenes, where probability and nature are sacrificed 
for effect. 

But there is ‘a spirit of goodness’ at the heart of all Dickens’s 
stories, and a felicitous humor and fancy, which are unknown 
to Bulwer and his other rivals. His vivid pictures of those 
poor, in-door sufferers ‘ in populous cities pent,’ have directed 
sympathy to the obscure dwellers in lanes and alleys, and may 
prove the precursor of practical amelioration. He has made 
fiction the handmaid of humanity and benevolence, without 
losing its companionship with wit and laughter. The hearty cor¬ 
diality of his mirth, his warm and kindly feelings, alive to what¬ 
ever interests or amuses others, and the undisguised pleasure 
with which he enters upon every scene of humble city-life and 
family affection, makes us in love with human nature in situa¬ 
tions and under circumstances rarely penetrated by the light 
of imagination. He is a sort of discoverer in the moral world, 
and has found an El Dorado in the outskirts and byways of 
humanity, where previous explorers saw little but dirt and 
ashes, and could not gather a single flower. This is the tri¬ 
umph of genius, as beneficial as it is brilliant and irresistible. 

Dickens’s principal fictions are The Pickwick Papers, Nicho¬ 
las Nickleby, Oliver Twist , The Curiosity Shop, Martin 
Chuzzlewit, Dombey and Son, and David Copper field. ‘ The 


380 


CHARLES DICKENS. 


Pickwick Papers/ though defective in plan and arrangement, 
abound with a great variety of characters and incidents, which 
are described with so much spirit as amply to atone for the 
want of any interesting or well-constructed plot. The hero, 
Pickwick, is almost as genial, unsophisticated, and original, as 
My Uncle Toby; and his man, Sam Weller, is an epitome ol 
London low-life in its most agreeable and entertaining form. 
The dialogue overflows with kindly humor, and felicities ol 
phrase and expression; the description is so graphic and 
copious, and the comic scenes so finely blended with tenderness 
and benevolence, that the effect of the whole is irresistible. 
The satire and ridicule of the author are always well directed, 
and though colored a little too highly, bear the clear impress of 
actual life and observation. The intimate acquaintance evinced 
in * Pickwick’ with the middle and low life of London', and of 
the tricks and knavery of medical pretenders, the arts of book¬ 
makers, and generally of particular classes and usages common 
to large cities, was a novelty in our literature. It was a res¬ 
toration of the spirit of Hogarth, with equal humor and prac¬ 
tical wit and knowledge, but infused with a better tone of 
humanity, and a more select and refined taste. ‘ There is no 
misanthropy in his satire,’ says one of his critics, ‘ and no 
coarseness in his descriptions’—a merit enhanced by the nature 
of his subjects. His works are chiefly pictures of humble life— 
frequently of the humblest. The reader is led through scenes 
of poverty and crime, and all the characters are made to dis¬ 
course in the appropriate language of their respective classes ; 
and yet we recollect no passage which ought to cause pain to 
the most sensitive delicacy, if read aloud in female society. 

‘ Nicholas Nickleby’ followed ‘ The Pickwick Papers,’ and 
was equally popular. The plan of this work is more regular 
and connected than the former, the characters generally not 
overdrawn, and the progressive interest of the narrative well sus¬ 
tained. The character of Mrs. Nickleby is a fine portraiture of 
the ordinary English wife, scarcely inferior in its kind to Field¬ 
ing’s Amelia; and Ralph Nickleby is also ably portrayed. 
The pedagogue Squeers, and his seminary of Dotheboys Hall, 
is one of the most amusing and graphic of English satirical il¬ 
lustrations ; and the picture it presents of imposture, igno¬ 
rance, and brutal cupidity, is known to have been little, if at 
all, exaggerated. The ludicrous account of Mr. Crummies and 
his theatrical company, is another of Dickens’s happiest concep¬ 
tions, though it passed into the region of farce. ‘ Oliver Twist,’ 
the next of Dickens’s works, is also a tale of English low-life, of 


JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 381 

vice, wretchedness, and misery, drawn with the greatest truth 
and vigor. The hero is an orphan, brought up by the parish, 
and thrown among various scenes and characters of the lowest 
and worst description. The plot of this novel is well arranged, 
and wrought up with consummate art and power. The interest 
of the dark and tragical portions of the story is overwhelming, 
though there is no unnatural exaggeration to produce effect, 
and no unnecessary gloom. 

The death of Little Nell, in the ‘ Curiosity Shop/ is, perhaps, 
the must pathetic and touching of the author’s serious passages ; 
it is also instructive in its pathos; for we feel with the author, 
that * when death strikes down the innocent and young, for every 
fragile form from which he lets the parting spirit free, a hundred 
virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the 
world and bless it. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed 
on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature 
comes. In the destroyer’s steps there spring up bright crea¬ 
tions that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of 
light to heaven.’ In the remaining works of Dickens most of 
the peculiarities that we have, in the course of these remarks, 
noticed, equally abound, but we need not dwell upon them. 

James Fenimore Cooper, the most distinguished of Ameri¬ 
can novelists, has obtained great celebrity, not only in his own 
country, but in England and over the whole continent of Eu¬ 
rope, for his pictures of the sea, sea-life, and wild Indian 
scenery and manners. Of his numerous fictions, the best are, 
The Spy, The Pilot, The Pioneers, The Last of the Mohicans, 
The Bed Rover, The Water Witch, and The Pathfinder. 
Cooper’s imagination was essentially poetical; and hence he 
invests the ship with all the interest of a living being, and 
makes his readers follow its progress, and trace the operations 
of those on board, with intense and never-flagging anxiety. 
Of humor he had no perception; and in the delineation of 
characters, and describing familiar incidents, he frequently be¬ 
trays great want of taste and knowledge of the world. He 
belonged to the romantic school of novelists, especially to the 
sea, the heath, and the primeval forest; and amid such objects he 
was always at home. To refined taste, and a finished, or even 
cultivated style, he made no pretensions; and hence it is rarely 
that we find a passage, throughout his numerous volumes, of 
what might be called fine writing. 


S82 


GEORGE CRABBE. 


POETRY. 

This period was as prolific in the production of writers in 
poetic as in prosaic fiction. Besides Sir Walter Scott, whose 
poetry we have already noticed, we have Crabbe, Rogers, 
Wordsworth, Montgomery, Coleridge, Southey, Campbell, 
Moore, Byron, Pollok, Tennyson, and many others of less 
celebrity. 

George Crabbe was essentially a descriptive poet, and in 
some respects strikingly resembled Cowper. His taste and 
inclination led him, however, to dwell upon the lower and more 
humble scenes in life, and to this bias his own early circumstan¬ 
ces may have contributed. His youth was dark and painful— 
spent in low society, amidst want and misery, irascible gloom 
and passion. He did not, like Cowper, attempt to describe 
the amenities of refined and intellectual society, but when he 
took up his pen, his mind turned to Aldborough and its wild 
amphibious race—to the parish workhouse, where the wheel 
hummed doleful through the day—‘ the erring damsels and 
luckless swains,’ the prey of overseers or justices—or to the 
haunts of desperate poachers and smugglers, gipsies and 
gamblers, where vice and misery stalked undisguised in their 
darkest forms. He stirred up the dregs of human society, and 
exhibited their blackness and deformity, yet worked them up 
into poetry. Like his own Sir Richard Monday, he never 
forgot the parish. 

It is true that village life in England, in its worst form, is 
composed of various materials, some bright and some gloomy ; 
and our author has drawn them all. His story of the real 
mourner, the faithful maid who watched over her dying sailor, 
is a beautiful tribute to the force and purity of humble affec¬ 
tion. In the ‘ Parting Hour’ and the * Patron’ are also pas¬ 
sages equally honorable to the poor and middle classes, and 
full of pathetic and graceful composition. It must be con¬ 
fessed, however, that Crabbe was in general a gloomy painter 
of life—that he was fond of depicting the unlovely and un- 
amiable—and that either for poetic effect, or from painful ex¬ 
perience, he makes the bad of life preponderate over the good. 
His pathos and tenderness are generally linked with something 
coarse, startling, or humiliating—to disappointed hopes or un¬ 
availing sorrow. 

Crabbe’s principal poems are, The Library, The Candidate , 
The Patron, The Village, The Parish Register, The Borough. 


SAMUEL ROGERS. 383 

The Parting Hour, Tales in Verse, and Tales of the Hall. 

* The Village,’ ‘ The Parish Register,’ and his shorter tales, are 
his most popular productions. ‘ The Tales of the Hall ’ are 
less interesting : they relate principally to the higher classes of 
society, and the poet was not so happy in describing their pe¬ 
culiarities as when supporting his character of the poet of the 
poor. Some of the episodes, however, are in his best style. 
Sir Owen Dale, Ruth, Ellen, and other stories, are all marked 
with the peculiar genius of the author. The redeeming and 
distinguishing feature of that genius was its fidelity to nature, 
even when it was dull and unprepossessing. His power of ob¬ 
servation and description might be limited, but his pictures 
have all the force of dramatic representation, and may be 
compared to those actual and existing models from which the 
sculptor or painter works, instead of vague and general con¬ 
ceptions. They are often too true ; and human nature being 
exhibited in its naked reality, with all its defects, and not 
through the bright and alluring medium of romance or imagi¬ 
nation, our vanity is shocked and our pride mortified. This 
anatomy of character and passion harrows up our feelings and 
leaves us in the end sad and ashamed of our common nature. 
Such was Crabbe, whom Byron calls 

‘ Nature’s sternest painter, yet the best/ 

Samuel Rogers is a poet of highly refined and cultivated 
taste, but not of passion. Hence his poetry can be relished by 
the intellectual classes only; but to such as have the key to 
its hidden mysteries, it is capable of imparting the most ex¬ 
quisite pleasure. Being a votary to the school of refinement, 
we have everywhere in his works a classic and graceful 
beauty; no slovenly lines ; fine cabinet pictures of soft and 
mellow lustre ; and occasionally trains of thought and associa¬ 
tions that awaken or recall tender and heroic feelings. His 
diction is even and polished, and his lines are finished with 
great care and scrupulous nicety. It must be admitted, how¬ 
ever, that he has no forcible or original invention, no deep pathos 
that thrills the soul, and no kindling energy that fires the ima¬ 
gination. 

The principal productions of this author are, an Ode to 
Suspicion, The Pleasures of Memory, Voyage of Columbus , 
Jacqueline, Human Life, and Italy. In his shadowy poem, 

* Columbus,’ which is but a mere fragment, he often verges on 
the sublime, but never attains to it. Parts of ‘ Human Life ’ 
possess deeper feeling than are to be found in the * Pleasures 


384 


WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 


of Memory/ which usually is considered his finest poem. In 
the easy half-conversational sketches of his ‘Italy/ there are 
delightful glimpses of Italian life and scenery, and of old tra¬ 
ditions. The poet is himself a lover of the fair and good, and 
a worshipper of the classic glories of the past. 

William Wordsworth was a metaphysical poet, and held 
the highest rank amongst that class of writers. The influence 
which he exerted on the poetry of his age was both beneficial 
and extensive. He turned the public taste from pompous 
inanity to the study of man and nature; he banished the false 
and exaggerated style of character and emotion which even the 
genius of Byron stooped to imitate; and he enlisted the sensi¬ 
bilities and sympathies of his intellectual brethren in favor of 
the most expansive and kindly philanthropy. The pleasures 
and graces of his muse are all simple, pure, and lasting. The 
influence of nature upon man was his favorite theme ; and 
though sometimes unintelligible from his idealism, he was 
also, upon other occasions, just and profound. His worship 
of nature was ennobling and impressive ; though in real sim¬ 
plicity, he is inferior to both Goldsmith and Cowper. 

Wordsworth was a very voluminous writer, but his most im¬ 
portant productions are. The Evening Walk, and Descriptive 
Sketches, The White Doe of Rylstone, The Wagoner, Ecclesi¬ 
astical Sketches, Yarrow Revisited, Sonnets on the River Dub- 
don, and The Excursion. The poetry in the ‘ Evening Walk ’ 
is much in the style of Goldsmith; but throughout the poem 
description predominates over reflection. ‘ The White Doe of 
Rylstone ’ is a romantic narrative, and colored with the tints 
of the author’s peculiar genius. Many of his ‘ Sonnets ’ are 
remarkable for their chaste and noble simplicity. In these 
short compositions, his elevation and power as a poet are, per¬ 
haps, more remarkably displayed than in any of his other pro¬ 
ductions. They possess a winning sweetness and simple gran¬ 
deur, without the most distant approach to antithesis or strain¬ 
ing for effect; while that tendency to prolixity and diffuseness 
which characterizes his longer poems, is repressed by the ne¬ 
cessity for brief and rapid thought and concise expression, im¬ 
posed by the nature of the sonnet. Some of these noble son¬ 
nets of Wordsworth, dedicated to liberty and inspired by 
patriotism, have been surpassed, if surpassed at all, only by 
the sonnets of Milton. 

But ‘ The Excursion/ a philosophical poem in blank verse, 
is by far the noblest production of the author. This work 


SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 385 

contains passages of sentiment, description, and pure eloquence, 
not excelled by any recent poet, while its spirit of enlightened 
humanity and Christian benevolence—extending over all varie¬ 
ties of sentiment, and ranks of animated being—imparts to 
the poem a peculiarly sacred and elevated character. The 
only drawback to this important production, is a want of con- 
gruity in working out the materials. The principal character 
is a poor Scotch peddler, who traverses the mountains in com¬ 
pany with the poet, and is made to discourse with clerk-like 
fluency, 

Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love; and hope. 

The poet thus violates the conventional rules of poetry and 
the realities of life ; for it is certainly inconsistent with truth 
and probability, that a profound moralist and dialectician should 
be found in such a personage. But it was the poet’s design 
to view man in the abstract, in connection with external nature, 
and thus blend his metaphysics with pictures of life and 
scenery. To build up and strengthen the powers of the mind, 
in contrast to the operations of sense, is ever his object. Like 
Bacon, Wordsworth would rather believe all the fables in the 
Talmud and Alcoran, than that this universal frame is without 
a mind—or that that mind does not, by its external symbols, 
speak to the human heart. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, one of the most enthusiastic 
admirers of Wordsworth, and long his friend and associate, 
was himself a rich imaginative poet, and has long enjoyed a 
high reputation. His poetry, however, indicated more than it 
achieved. Visions of grace, tenderness, and majesty, seem ever 
to have haunted him. Some of these he embodied in exquisite 
verse; but he wanted concentration and steadiness of purpose 
to avail himself sufficiently of his intellectual riches. A hap¬ 
pier destiny was, perhaps, also wanting; for much of his life 
was spent in poverty and dependence, amidst disappointments 
and ill-health. His works are numerous, and various in style 
and manner, embracing ode, epigram, love poems, and strains 
of patriotism and superstition—a wild witchery of imagination 
at one time, and at others, severe and stately thought and in¬ 
tellectual retrospection. His language is often rich and mu¬ 
sical, highly figured and ornate. Many of his minor poems 
are characterized by tenderness and beauty, but others are 
disfigured by passages of turgid sentimentalism and puerile 
affectation. 


33 


386 


ROBERT SOUTHEY. 


Coleridge’s chief poems are, an Ode on the Departing Year , 
Fears in Solitude, Frost at Midnight, Ode on France, Christa- 
bel, and The Ancient Mariner. Of these poems by far the 
most original and striking is ‘ The Ancient Mariner.’ The 
germ of this remarkable tale is said to be contained in a pas¬ 
sage of Shelvocke, one of the classical circumnavigators of the 
earth, who states that his second captain, being a melancholy 
man, was possessed by a fancy that some long season of fou. 
weather was owing to an albatross which had steadily pursued 
the ship, upon which he shot the bird, but without mending 
their condition. Coleridge makes the ancient mariner re¬ 
late the circumstances attending his act of inhumanity to 
one of three wedding guests whom he meets and detains on 
his way to the marriage feast. * He holds him with his glit¬ 
tering eye,’ and invests his narrative with a deep preternatural 
character and interest, and with touches of exquisite tenderness 
and energetic description. The versification is irregular, in the 
style of the old ballads, and most of the action of the piece 
is unnatural; yet the poem is full of vivid and original imagi¬ 
nation. * There is nothing else like it,’ says one of his critics ; 

‘ it is a poem by itself; between it and other compositions, in 
pari materia, there is a charm which you cannot surpass. 
The sensitive reader feels himself insulated, and a sea of wonder 
and mystery flows round him as round the spell-stricken ship 
itself.’ 

Coleridge farther illustrates his theory of the connection be¬ 
tween the metrical and the spiritual world, in his unfinished 
poem of * Christabel,’ a romantic supernatural tale, filled with 
wild imagery and the most remarkable modulation of verse. 
This matrical harmony of the author exercises a sort of fasci¬ 
nation even where it is found united to incoherent images and 
absurd conceptions. His odes, however, are generally highly 
passionate and elevated in conception, and free from the ob¬ 
jectionable features of his other compositions. The ‘ Ode on 
France’ has been considered the finest English ode of modern 
times. The ‘ Hymn to Chamouni’ is equally lofty and brilliant. 
His ‘ Genevieve’ is a pure and exquisite love-poem, without 
that gorgeous diffuseness which characterizes the odes, yet 
more chastely and carefully finished, and abounding in the 
delicate and subtle traits of his imagination. 

Robert Southey was one of the most voluminous and 
learned authors of the present period. A poet, a scholar, an 
antiquary, a critic, and an historian; he wrote more than even 


ROBERT SOUTHEY. 3S7 

Sir Walter Scott, and lie is said to have burned more verses 
between the twentieth and thirtieth year of his age than he 
published during his whole life. His time was entirely devoted 
to literature. Each day, and even each hour had its appro¬ 
priate and select task ; his library Was his world within, which 
he was content to range, and his books were his most cherished 
and constant companions. 

Southey’s principal poems were all of the epic class, the first 
of which, in the order of time, was Joan of Arc. This poem 
displays great fertility of language and boldness of imagination, 
but at the same time it is diffuse in style, and in many parts 
wild and incoherent. In imitation of Dante, he conducted his 
heroine, in a dream, to the abodes of departed spirits, and 
dealt very freely with the ‘ murderers of mankind,’ from Nimrod, 
the mighty hunter, down to the hero conqueror of Agincourt. 
In the second edition of the poem, however, the vision of the 
Maid of Orleans, and every thing miraculous, were omitted. 

Thalaba the Destroyer , the author’s second epic, is an Ara¬ 
bian fiction of great beauty and magnificence. The style of 
verse adopted by the poet in this work is irregular, without 
rhyme ; and it possesses a peculiar charm and rhythmical 
harmony, though, like the redundant descriptions in the work, 
it becomes wearisome in so long a poem. The opening stanzas 
convey an exquisite picture of a widowed mother wandeiing 
over the sands of the East during the silence of night. The 
measure of this poem has great power, as well as harmony, in 
skilful hands. It is in accordance with the subject of the 
poem, and is, as the author himself remarks, ‘ the Arabesque 
ornament of an Arabian tale.’ Medoc, an epic poem, founded 
on a Welch story, was our author’s next important production, 
but it is far inferior to either of its predecessors. 

The Curse of Kehama , Southey’s greatest poetical work, is 
a poem of the same class and structure as ‘ Thalaba,’ only it is 
written in rhyme. Kehama is a Hindoo rajah, who, like Faus- 
tus, obtains and sports with supernatural powers. His adven¬ 
tures are sufficiently startling, and afford room for the author’s 
striking amplitude of description. ‘ The story is founded/ 
according to Sir Walter Scott, * upon the Hindoo mythology, 
the most gigantic, cumbrous, and extravagant system of idola¬ 
try to which temples were ever erected. The scene is alter¬ 
nately laid in the terrestrial paradise, under the sea—in the 
heaven of heavens—and in hell itself. The principal actors—a 
man, who approaches almost to omnipotence ; another laboring 
under a strange and fearful malediction, which exempts him 


388 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 

from the ordinary laws of nature; a good genius, a sorceress, 
and a ghost, with several Hindostan deities of different ranks. 
The only being that retains the usual attributes of humanity is 
a female, who is gifted with immortality at the close of the 
piece.’ Some of the scenes in this strangely magnificent thea¬ 
tre of horrors, are described with the power of Milton; and 
the account of the approach of the mortals to Padalon, or the 
Indian Hades, is equal in grandeur to any other passage in 
the language. Besides the wonderful display of imagination 
and invention, and its vivid scene-painting, the * Curse of 
Kehama’ possesses the farther recommendation of being in 
manners, sentiments, scenery, and costume, distinctively and 
exclusively Hindoo. Roderick, the Last of the Goths, was the 
fifth and last of Southey’s epic poems. It is a noble and pa¬ 
thetic production, though liable to the charge of redundant 
description. 

Few authors have written so much and so well, with so little 
real popularity, as Southey. The magnificent creations of his 
poetry—piled up like clouds at sunset, in the calm serenity of 
his capacious intellect—have always been duly appreciated by 
poetical students and critical readers; but by the public at 
large they are neglected. The reason of this may, perhaps, be 
found both in the subjects of his poetry, and in his manner of 
treating them. His fictions are wild and supernatural, and 
have no hold on human affections. Gorgeous and sublime as 
some of his images and descriptions are, ‘they come like 
shadows, so depart.’ They are too remote, too fanciful, and 
often too learned. Some affectations of style and expression 
also mar the effect of his conceptions ; and the stately and co¬ 
pious flow of his versification, unrelieved by bursts of passion 
or eloquent sentiment, often becomes heavy and monotonous 
in its uniform smoothness and dignity. 

James Montgomery was a strictly religious poet, and of de¬ 
servedly high reputation. A tone of generous and enlightened 
morality pervades all his writings. He was the enemy of every 
form of oppression, and the warm friend of every scheme of 
philanthropy and improvement. The pious and devotional 
feelings displayed in his early effusions have grown with his 
growth, and form the staple of his poetry. His fame was, con¬ 
sequently, long confined to what is termed the religious world, 
till he showed, by his cultivation of different poetic styles, that 
his depth and sincerity of feeling, the simplicity of his taste, 
and the picturesque beauty of his language, were not restricted 


JAMES MONTGOMERY. 389 

to purely spiritual themes. His smaller poems, such as The 
Grave , An Occasional Hymn, and The Joy of Grief ‘ enjoy a 
popularity almost equal to those of Moore, which, though dif¬ 
fering widely in subject, they resemble in their musical flow, 
and their compendious, happy expression and imagery. In 
description, also, he is equally happy; and in his ‘ Greenland ’ 
and ‘Pelican Island,’ there are passages of great beauty, evin¬ 
cing a refined taste and sound judgment in the selection of his 
materials. 

The first of Montgomery’s larger poems was The Wanderer 
of Switzerland. This poem is constructed on the principle of 
the ballad, and its easy narration, and quaint simplicity of both 
style and language, immediately secured its popularity with 
general readers. As a work of art, however, it will hardly 
bear the test of criticism. The ‘Wanderer’ was followed by 
The West Indies, a poem in five parts, written in honor of the 
abolition of the African slave-trade by the British legislature. 
It is composed in the heroic couplet, and possesses a vigor and 
freedom of description, and a power of pathetic painting, much 
superior to any thing in the previous production. 

The World before the Flood, the author’s most elaborate 
performance, is also written in the heroic couplet, and extends 
to ten short cantos. His pictures of the antediluvian patriarchs 
in their-happy valley, the invasion of Eden by the descendants 
of Cain, the loves of Javan and Zillah, the translation of Enoch, 
and the final deliverance of the little band of patriarch families 
from the hands of the giants, are sweet and touching, and ele¬ 
vated by pure and lofty feeling. The fourth canto, which con¬ 
tains an account of the events attending the death of our first 
parents, Adam and Eve, is wrought up into a degree of ten¬ 
derness and pathos approaching the height of sublimity. All 
nature, even the tempest, the flood, and the whirlwind, sympa¬ 
thize in the sad event, and lend their aid to deepen the general 
gloom. 

Greenland, a poem in five cantos, was the author’s next im¬ 
portant production. This work contains a sketch of the ancient 
Moravian Church, its revival in the eighteenth century, and the 
origin of the recent missions of that people to Greenland. The 
poem, as published, is only a part of the author’s original plan ; 
but the beauty of its polar descriptions and episodes, secured for 
it a most flattering reception by the public, with whom it has 
always retained its popularity. Montgomery’s only other long 
poem is The Pelican Island. This work contains nine short can¬ 
tos, is written in blank verse, and the narrative is supposed to be 

33* 


390 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

delivered by an imaginary being, who witnesses the series of 
events related, after the whole has happened. The poem 
abounds in minute and delicate description of natural phe¬ 
nomena—has great felicity of diction and expression—and al¬ 
together possesses more of the power and fertility of the master 
than any other of the author’s works. 

Thomas Campbell was the most purely correct and classical 
poet of this period. His genius and taste resemble those of 
Gray. He displays the same delicacy and purity of sentiment, 
the same vivid perception of beauty and ideal loveliness, equal 
picturesqueness and elevation of imagery, and the same lyrical 
and concentrated power of expression. The diction of both is 
elaborate, choice, and select. Campbell has greater sweetness 
and gentleness of pathos, springing from deep moral feeling, 
and a refined sensitiveness of nature. Neither can be considered 
boldly original or inventive, but they both possess sublimity : 
Gray in his two magnificent odes, and Campbell in various 
passages of the ‘ Pleasures of Hope,’ and especially in his 
war-songs or lyrics, such as Ye Mariners of England, and 
Hohenlinden. The general tone of his verse is calm, uniform, 
and mellifluous—a stream of wild harmony and delicious fancy 
flowing through the border-scenes of life, with images scattered 
separately, like flowers, on its surface, and beauties of expression 
interwoven with it—certain words and phrases of magical 
power—which never quit the memory. His style rises and 
falls gracefully with his subject, but without any appearance 
of imitative harmony or direct resemblance. In his highest 
pulse of excitement, the cadence of his verse becomes deep and 
strong, without losing its liquid smoothness ; the stream ex¬ 
pands to a flood, but never overflows the limits prescribed by 
a correct taste and well-regulated magnificence. 

Campbell’s most important poems are. The Pleasures of 
Hope, Gertrude of Wyoming, and O'Connor s Child ; besides 
which, he produced many smaller pieces, such as The Exile 
of Erin, Lochiel's Warning, The Last Man, and Lord Ullin's 
Daughter, of so exalted merit, that had he written nothing 
else, they alone would have immortalized his name. His The- 
odric, published late in life, is so inferior to his other produc¬ 
tions, that its paternity can scarcely be discerned. 

‘ The Pleasures of Hope,’ on its first publication, took the 
literary world by surprise. By its varying and exquisite mel¬ 
ody, its polished diction, and the vein of generous and lofty 
sentiment which seemed to . embalm and sanctify the entire 


THOMAS CAMPBELL. 391 

poem, it captivated all its readers. The touching and beautiful 
episodes with which it abounds, constituted also a source of 
deep interest; and in picturing the horrors of war, and the in¬ 
famous partition of Poland, the poet kindled up into a strain 
of noble, indignant zeal and prophet-like inspiration. Such 
energetic apostrophes are sweetly contrasted with sketches of 
domestic tenderness and beauty, finished with the most perfect 
taste in picturesque delineation, and with highly musical ex¬ 
pression. Traces of juvenility may no doubt be found in the 
* Pleasures of Hope ’—a want of connection between the dif¬ 
ferent parts of the poem, some florid lines and imperfect meta¬ 
phors ; but such a series of beautiful and dazzling pictures, so 
pure and elevated a tone of moral feeling, and such terse, 
vigorous, and polished versification, were never perhaps before 
found united in a poem written at so early an age. 

‘ Gertrude of Wyoming,’ our author’s second great poem, 
appeared ten years after the publication of ‘ The Pleasures of 
Hope.’ In youth the latter is generally preferred; for, like its 
elder brother, ‘ The Pleasures of Imagination,’ it is full of visions 
of romantic beauty and unchecked enthusiasm. In riper years, 
however, when the taste becomes matured, * Gertrude of Wyo¬ 
ming’ rises in our estimation. Its beautiful home-scenes go 
more closely to the heart, and its delineation of character and 
passion evinces a more luxuriant and perfect genius. The 
portrait of the savage ehief, Outalissi, is finished with inimitable 
skill and truth; and the loves of Gertrude and Waldegrave, 
the patriarch Albert, and the sketches of rich sequestered 
Pennsylvanian scenery, also show the finished art of the poet. 
The concluding description of the battle, and the death of the 
heroine, are superior to any thing in ‘ The Pleasures of Hope.’ 
Though the plot is simple, and occasionally obscure, the poem 
has altogether so much of the dramatic spirit, that its charac¬ 
ters are distinctly and vividly impressed on the mind of the 
reader, and the valley of Wyoming, with its green declivities, 
lake, and forest, instantly takes its place among the imperishable 
treasures of the memory. 

‘ O’Connor’s Child’ is another exquisitely finished and pathetic 
tale. The rugged and ferocious features of ancient feudal 
manners and family pride, are there displayed in connection 
with female suffering, love, and beauty, and with the romantic 
and warlike coloring suited to the country and the times. It is 
full of antique grace and passionate energy—the mingled light 
and gloom of the wild Celtic character and imagination. Of 
Campbell’s minor poems, ‘ The Last Man’ is perhaps the most 


392 


THOMAS MOORE. 


extraordinary, and may be ranked amongst his greatest con¬ 
ceptions. ‘ It is like a sketch by Michael Angelo, or Rem¬ 
brandt.’ 

Thomas Moore united, in his poetical works, a remarkable 
degree of wit and sensibility with high powers of imagination 
and extensive learning. He is deficient, however, in simplicity 
and genuine passion ; and when time shall have destroyed the 
attractive charm of his personal qualities, and remove his works 
to a distance to be judged of by their fruit alone, this deficiency 
will be more deeply felt. He has worked little in the durable 
and permanent materials of poetry, but has spent his time in 
enriching the stately structure with exquisite ornaments—foli¬ 
age, flowers, and gems. He has preferred the myrtle to the 
olive or the oak. His longer poems want human interest. 
Tenderness and pathos he undoubtedly possessed; but they 
were fleeting and evanescent—not embodied in his verse in any 
tale of melancholy grandeur, or strain of affecting morality or 
sentiment. He often throws into his gay and festive verses, 
and his fanciful descriptions, touches of pensive and mournful 
reflection, which strike by their truth and beauty, and by the 
force of contrast. Indeed, one effect of his genius has been, 
to elevate the feelings and occurrences of ordinary life into 
poetry, rather than to deal with the lofty abstract elements of 
the art. The combinations of his wit are, however, wonderfully 
quiet, subtle, and varied, ever suggesting new thoughts or 
images, or unexpected turns of expression—now finding its 
resources in classical literature or the ancient fathers—now 
diving into the human heart, and now skimming the fields of 
fancy—the wit of Moore is a true Ariel, 4 a creature of the 
elements,’ that is ever buoyant and full of life. 

Moore’s earliest poems were presented to the public under 
the title of Odes and Epistles, and in these the descriptive 
sketches are remarkable for their fidelity, no less than 
for their poetic beauty. Soon after the publication of his 
‘ Odes and Epistles,’ he entered upon the noble poetical and 
patriotic task of writing lyrics for the ancient music of his 
native country. His Irish Songs display a fervor and pathos 
not found in his earlier works, with the most exquisite melody 
and purity of diction. An accomplished musician himself, it 
was the effort, he says, to translate into language the emotions 
and passions which music appeared to him to express, that first 
led to his writing any poetry worthy of the name. ‘ Drvden,’ 
he adds, * has happily described music as being “ inarticulate 


THOMAS MOORE. 393 

poetry and I have alwaj T s felt, in adapting words to an ex¬ 
pressive air, that I was bestowing upon it the gift of articula¬ 
tion, and thus enabling it to speak to others all that was con¬ 
veyed, in its wordless eloquence, to myself.’ Part of the in¬ 
spiration must also be attributed to national feelings. The old 
airs were consecrated to recollections of the ancient glories, the 
valor, beauty, or sufferings of Ireland, and became inseparably 
connected with such associations. 

The Irish Melodies , our author’s next important publication, 
are full of true feeling and delicacy, and are by universal con¬ 
sent, and by the test of memory, the most popular and the 
most likely to be immortal of all his works. They are musical, 
almost beyond parallel, in words—graceful in thought and 
sentiment—often tender, pathetic, and heroic—and they blend 
poetical and romantic feelings with the objects and sympathies 
of common life in language chastened and refined, yet appa¬ 
rently so simple that every trace of art has disappeared. The 
most familiar expressions became, in his hands, instruments of 
power and melody. The songs were read and remembered by 
all. They are equally the delight of the cottage and the saloon, 
and, in the poet’s own country, are sung with an enthusiasm 
that will long be felt in the hour of festivity, as well as in 
periods of suffering and solemnity, by that imaginative and 
warm-hearted people. If there be any difference in these songs 
in point of merit, those are, perhaps, the best in which the 
author delicately hints at the woes of his native country, and 
transmutes into verse the breathings of its unfortunate patriots. 

Lalla Rookh, Moore’s most elaborate poem, is an oriental 
romance, the accuracy of which, as regards topographical an¬ 
tiquarian, and characteristic details, has been attested by nu¬ 
merous competent authorities. The poetry is brilliant and 
gorgeous—rich to excess with imagery and ornament—and 
oppressive from its very sweetness and splendor. Of the four 
tales which, connected by a slight narrative, constitute the 
entire poem, the most simple is Paradise and the Peri, and it 
is the one most frequently read and remembered. Still the 
fi rs t —The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan —though improbable 
and extravagant as a fiction, is a poem of great energy and power. 
The genius of the poet moves with grace and freedom under 
his load of Eastern magnificence, and the reader is fascinated 
by his prolific fancy, and the scenes of loveliness and splendor 
which are depicted with such vividness and truth. This poem, 
though, perhaps, not a great performance, is certainly a mar¬ 
vellous work of art, and contains paintings of local scenes and 


394 


LORD BYRON. 


manners, unsurpassed for fidelity and picturesque effect. Of 
the poems of Moore not hitherto noticed, the most important 
arc, The Loves of the Angels, Rhymes on the Road, Fables of 
the Holy Alliance, and VatheJc ; but as the general character¬ 
istics of style and usage which we have attributed to those 
poems that we have particularly examined, pervade these also, 
a more extensive notice of them is not necessary. 

Lord Byron was one of the most gifted poets of any age or 
country. His style is finished, nervous, and lofty, and he ex¬ 
celled in painting the strong and gloomy passions of our nature, 
contrasted with feminine softness and delicacy. He delighted 
also in self-portraiture, and could stir up the very depths of 
the human heart. It is true his philosophy of life was false 
and pernicious ; but the splendor of the artist concealed the 
deformity of his design. Parts are so nobly finished, that 
there is enough upon which for admiration to rest, without 
analyzing the whole. He conducts his readers through scenes 
of surpassing beauty and splendor—by haunted streams and 
mountains, enriched with the glories of ancient poetry and 
valor; but the same dark shadow was ever by his side—the 
same scorn and mockery of human hopes and ambition. The 
sententious force and elevation of his thoughts and language, 
his eloquent expression of sentiment, and the mournful and 
solemn melody of his tender aud pathetic passages, seemed, 
however, almost to atone for his want of moral truth and reality. 
The man and the poet were so intimately blended, and the 
spectacle presented by both was so touching, mysterious, and 
lofty, that Byron concentrated a degree of interest and anxiety 
on his successive public appearances, which no author ever 
before was able to boast; and hence, for a few years it seemed 
as if the world contained but one great poet. His rank, youth, 
and misfortunes, his exile from England, the mystery which he 
loved to throw around his history and feelings, the apparent 
depth of his sufferings and attachments, and his very misan¬ 
thropy and skepticism (relieved by bursts of tenderness and 
pity, and by the incidental expression of high and holy feelings), 
formed a combination of personal circumstances in aid of the 
legitimate effect of his passionate and graceful poetry, which 
is unparalleled in the history of modern literature. The great¬ 
ness of his genius is seen in ‘ Childe Harold’—its tenderness, 
in the tales and smaller poems—its rich variety, in ‘Don Juan.’ 
A brighter garland few poets can hope to wear—yet it unfor¬ 
tunately wants the unfading flowers of hope and virtue 


LORD BYRON. 


395 


The first volume of Byron’s poetry was published under the 
title of Hours of Idleness. There were indications of genius 
in this collection, but many errors of taste and judgment. The 
vulnerable points were fiercely assailed by the critics, and the 
merits overlooked ; and the young poet replied by his vigorous 
satire, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers , which disarmed, 
if it did not discomfit, his opponents. The satire of this work 
is both caustic and severe in the extreme, and at once placed the 
author by the side of Dry den and Pope in this species of 
writing. Childe Harold , a poem in four cantos, was executed 
at different times within a period of five years. In this work 
the author has shown his mastery over the complicated Spen¬ 
serian stanza, and a rare command of the rich stores of the 
English language. The Giaour, The Bride of Abydos, The 
Corsair, and Lara, are in the heroic couplet, and were pro¬ 
duced at intervals between the commencement and the close 
of ‘ Childe Harold.’ The Siege of Corinth, The Prisoner of 
Chillon, Manfred, The Lament of Tasso, Beppo, and Mazeppa , 
followed in an incredibly short space of time; immediately 
after which he commenced Don Juan, his last, and as a work 
of genius, much his greatest performance. This work extends 
through fifteen cantos, but exhibits great inequalities. The 
first five cantos are distinguished by the wit and knowledge, 
the passion, the variety, and the originality, peculiar to the 
noble author; but the remaining cantos betray the downward 
course of the poet’s habits, being debased with inferior matter, 
and imagery indelicate and offensive. This tendency is doubt¬ 
less attributable to the private history and luxurious indulgen¬ 
ces of Byron during the latter part of his residence on the 
continent—the wild license of his life it would be, under any 
circumstances, impossible to justify. 

The genius of this author was as versatile as it was ener¬ 
getic. ‘Childe Harold’ and ‘Don Juan’ are, perhaps, the 
greatest poetical works of this century; and in the noble poet’s 
tales and minor poems there is a grace, an interest, and roman¬ 
tic picturesqueness, that render them peculiarly fascinating to 
youthful readers. The ‘Giaour’ has passages of still higher 
description and feeling—particularly that fine burst on modern 
Greece contrasted with its ancient glory, and the exquisitely 
pathetic and beautiful comparison of the same country to the 
human frame bereft of life. The ‘ Prisoner of Chillon is also 
natural and affecting : the story is painful and hopeless, but it 
is told with inimitable tenderness and simplicity. The reality 
of many of the scenes in ‘Don Juan’ must strike every reader. 


396 


ROBERT POLLOK. 


His account of the shipwreck is drawn from narratives of actual 
occurrences, and his Grecian pictures, feasts, dresses, and holi¬ 
day pastimes, are literal transcripts from life. The character 
of Lambro, and especially the description of his return, has 
been thought the finest of all Byron’s efforts : it is more dra¬ 
matic and life-like than any other of his numerous paintings. 
But before the close of the poem, the distinctions between 
virtue and vice had been broken down or obscured in the poet’s 
own mind, and they are undistinguishable in ‘ Don Juan.’ 
Early sensuality had tainted his whole nature. He portrays 
generous emotions and moral feelings—distress, suffering, and 
pathos—and then dashes them with burlesque humor, wild pro¬ 
fanity, and unseasonable merriment. In ‘ Childe Harold ’ we 
have none of this moral anatomy, or its accompanying licen¬ 
tiousness ; but there is abundance of scorn and defiance of the 
ordinary pursuits and ambition of mankind. The fairest por¬ 
tions of the earth are traversed in a spirit of bitterness and 
desolation by one satiated with pleasure, contemning society, 
the victim of a dreary and hopeless skepticism. Such a charac¬ 
ter would have been repulsive, if the poem had not been 
adorned with the graces of animated description and original 
and striking sentiment. 

Robert Pollok published, in 1827, a religious poem, en¬ 
titled The Course of Time. It speedily rose to great popu¬ 
larity, especially among the more serious classes of readers. 
Many who scarcely ever looked into modern poetry were 
tempted to peruse a work which embodied their favorite theo- 
. logical views, set off with the graces of poetical fancy and descrip¬ 
tion ; while to the ordinary readers of imaginative literature, 
the poem had force and originality enough to challenge an at¬ 
tentive perusal. 

‘ The Course of Time ’ is a long poem, extending to ten 
books, written in a style that sometimes imitates the lofty 
march of Milton, and at other times resembles that of Young. 
The object of the poet is to describe the spiritual life and des¬ 
tiny of man; and he varies his religious speculations with 
episodical pictures and narratives, to illustrate the effects of 
virtue and vice. The sentiments of the author are strongly 
Calvinistic, and in this respect, as well as in a certain ardor of 
imagination and devotional enthusiasm, the poem reminds us 
of the style of Milton’s early prose treatises. It is often harsh, 
turgid, and vehement, and deformed by a gloom of piety which 
repels the reader in spite of the many splendid passages and 


ALFRED TENNYSON. 


397 


images that are scattered throughout the work. With much 
of the spirit and the opinions of Cowper, Pollok wanted his 
taste and refinement. Time might have mellowed the fruits 
of his genius; for certainly the design of so extensive a poem, 
and the possession of a poetical diction so copious and ener¬ 
getic, by a young man reared in circumstances by no means 
favorable for the cultivation of a literary taste, indicate remark¬ 
able intellectual power and determination of character. Pollok 
was a licentiate of the Scottish Secession church, and died at 
the age of twenty-seven. 

Alfred Tennyson published, when still a very young man, 
a volume of juvenile poetry, which was very severely criticised 
by some of the most influential Reviews. He some few years 
after issued another volume, which met a reception as unfavor¬ 
able as the first. The poems, however, contained much that 
was really meritorious ; and as soon therefore as the unbiassed 
judgment of the public was exercised upon them, they were 
not only properly appreciated, but even became the fashion 
of the day. 

Tennyson’s principal poems are, The Dying Swan, The Lady 
Clara Vere de Vere, The Talking Oak, Saint Simeon Stylites , 
and the Lotos Eaters. The prevailing characteristic of his style 
is a quaint and quiet elegance, and of his mind, a gentle melan¬ 
choly, with now and then touches of strong dramatic power, 
the whole colored by the peculiar scenery of Lincolnshire, the 
part of England where he resided. The exquisitely modulated 
poem of ‘ The Dying Swan,’ affords many pictures drawn with 
wonderful delicacy, and fully illustrative of these remarks. 
Another characteristic of our author’s style is its beautiful sim¬ 
plicity ; and so great a merit should never be underrated by 
any reader. The first poetry of barbarians, and the most refined 
poetry of advancing civilization, have it in common with each 
other. Specimens of great power and of great simplicity 
abound in most of his poems, particularly in the poem on the 
old legend of the ‘ Lady Godiad.’ The ballad of ‘ Lady Clara 
Vere de Vere’ may almost be cited as a speeimen of extreme 
simplicity united with great force. ‘ The Talking Oak ’ is a 
fanciful and beautiful ballad, in which a lord and an oak-tree 
converse upon the charms of a sweet maiden named Olivia. 
The poem of ‘ Saint Simeon Stylites ’ is of a different character, 
and portrays the spiritual'pride of an ancient fanatic, with a 
simple and savage grandeur of words and imagery which is 
rarely surpassed. The ‘ Lotos Eaters ’ affords fine specimens 


398 JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 

of our author’s exquisite modulations of rhythm. This poem 
represents the luxurious, lazy sleepiness of mind and body 
supposed to be produced in those who feed upon the lotos, 
and contains passages not surpassed by the finest descriptions 
in the ‘ Castle of Indolence.’ It is rich in striking and appro¬ 
priate imagery, and is sung to a rhythm which is music itself. 


DRAMATISTS. 

Henry Hart Milman is the author of several poems and 
dramas of very considerable merit. His first great dramatic 
poem is a tragedy under the title of Fazio. This drama is 
adapted to the stage, and has been performed both in this 
country and in England with very marked success. It is founded 
on an Italian story, and is a work of very deep interest. The 
author also, soon after the appearance of ‘Fazio,’ produced 
in succession four other dramatic poems : The Fall of Jerusa¬ 
lem, Belshazzar, The Martyr of Antioch, and Anne Boleyn ; 
but none of these were designed for the stage. The great 
poetic performance, however, of this author, is a narrative poem 
under the title of Samer, Lord of the Bright City. The sub¬ 
ject of this poem is the invasion of England by Hengist and 
Horsa, the two Saxon chiefs who first led their countrymen 
into Britain. The narration is frequently spirited, and some¬ 
times even smooth and elegant; but the story is deficient in 
interest, and is therefore not effective. The author’s dramas 
want spirit, and also that warmth of passion and imagination 
which is necessary to vivify his sacred learning and his classical 
creations. 

James Sheridan Knowles, the most successful of modern 
dramatists, made his first appearance as a writor before the 
public in the tragedy of Virginius. The success of this play 
was so extraordinary as to induce the author to continue his 
dramatic career, and he has occasionally since produced The 
Wife, a Tale of Mantua, The Hunchback, Caius Gracchus , 
The Blind Beggar of Bethnel Green, William Tell, and The 
Love Chase. With considerable knowledge of stage effect, 
Knowles unites a lively inventive imagination and a poetical 
coloring, which, if at times too florid and gaudy, sets off his 
familiar images and illustrations. His style is formed on that 
of Massinger and the other elder dramatists, carried often to a 
ridiculous excess. He also frequently violates Roman history 



GEORGE COLMAN. 399 

and classical propriety, and runs into conceited and affected 
metaphors. These faults are, however, counterbalanced by a 
happy art of conducting scenes and plots, romantic, yet not 
too improbable, by skilful delineation of character, especially 
in domestic life, and by a current of poetry which sparkles 
through his plays, ‘ not with a dazzling lustre—not with a gor¬ 
geousness that engrosses the attention, but mildly and agree¬ 
ably ; seldom impeding with needless glitter the progress 
and development of incident and character, but mingling itself 
with them, and raising them pleasantly above the prosaic level 
of common life.’ 

George Colman, the younger, Charles Robert Maturin, 
and John O’Keefe, were dramatic writers of the earlier part 
of this period of very considerable merit, though neither of 
them equalled Knowles. Coleman was purely a comic writer, 
and his principal comic dramas are, The Mountaineers, The 
Iron Chest, The Heir at Law, The Poor Gentleman, and John 
Bull . His comedies abound in witty and ludicrous delineations 
of character, interspersed with bursts of tenderness and feeling 
somewhat in the style of Sterne, whom, indeed, he has closely 
copied in his ‘ Poor Gentleman.’ The whimsical character of 
Ollapod in this play is one of the author’s most original and 
laughable conceptions. Sir Walter Scott has praised his ‘John 
Bull ’ as by far the best effort of our late comic drama. 

Maturin’s principal drama is the tragedy of Bertram. This 
tragedy is a work of great merit, being grand and powerful, 
the language most animated and poetical, and the characters 
sketched with a masterly enthusiasm. The author was anxious 
to introduce Satan on the stage, a return to the style of the 
ancient mysteries by no means suited' to modern taste. The 
success of ‘ Bertram ’ induced the author to attempt another 
tragedy, Manuel, which, however, proved a very inferior pro¬ 
duction. O’Keefe is one of the most witty authors of the 
English drama. Indeed his writings, it is said, were only in¬ 
tended to make people laugh, and they have fully answered 
that purpose. His principal dramas are, The Agreeable Sur¬ 
prise, Wild Oats, and The Poor Soldier, all of which are still 
favorites, especially the first, in which the character of Lingo, 
the schoolmaster, is a laughable piece of broad humor. 


A COURSE OP READING. 


Mitford’s or Gillies’ History of Greece. 

Hook’s History of Rome, and Ferguson’s History of the Roman 
Republic. 

Plutarch’s Lives of Distinguished Grecians and Romans. 
Anacharsis’ Travels, with the Plates. 

Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, with Milman’s 
notes. 

Robertson’s History of Charles the Fifth. 

Roscoe’s Life of Lorenzo de Medici. 

Roscoe’s Life and Pontificate of Leo the Tenth. 

Hallam’s Middle Ages. 

Russell’s Modern Europe. 

Sismondi’s Literature of the South of Europe. 

Hume’s or Lingard’s History of England. 

Hallam’s Introduction to the Literature of the Fifteenth, Sixteenth, 
and Seventeenth Centuries. 

Johnson’s Lives of British Poets, with the works of the several 
writers there noticed, in the order in which the criticisms follow 
each other. 

Browne’s Lectures on Intellectual Philosophy. 

Way land’s Moral Science. 

Kaimes’ Elements of Criticism. 

Mills’s Literature and Literary Men of Great Britain and IitglYirsi. 
Robertson’s History of America. 

Irving’s Life and Discoveries of Columbus. 

Prescott’s Ferdinand and Isabella. 

Prescott’s Conquest of Mexico. 

Bancroft’s History of the United States. 



LECTURE I. —Introduction 
LECTURE II.—Taste . 




1 


12 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The division of the subject. 

2. The definition and nature of taste. 

A. Instinct and reason. 

B. The universality of taste. 

C. The various di grees of taste. 

D. The sources of its improvement. 

a. Exercise. 

b. Reason and good sense. 


c. Morality. 

3. The characters of taste. 

A. Delicacy. 

B. Correctness. 

4. The variations of taste. 

5. The standard of taste. 

A. Arguments in favor of a standard. 


LECTURE III. —Criticism—Genius—Pleasures of Taste—Sublim¬ 
ity in Objects. 19 


analysis. 


1. Criticism. 

A. The definition of criticism. 

B. Its nature and object. 

C. Objections to it considered. 

2. Genius. 

A. Taste and genius distinguished. 

B. The nature" of genius, and its con¬ 

nection with taste. 

3. The pleasures of taste. 

A. Mr. Addison's theory. 


B. The sources of the pleasures of 
taste. 

4. Sublimity in external objects. 

A. The nature of sublimity. 

B. The sources of sublimity. 

a. Solemn and awful objects. 

b. Obscurity. 

c. Disorder. 

C. Moral sublimity. 

D. The foundation of the sublime. 


LECTURE IV. —The Sublime in Writing 


28 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The foundation of the sublime. 

2. Instances of sublime writing. 

A. The Sacred Scriptures. 

B. Homer’s poems. 

C. The works of Ossian. 

D. Milton’s poems. 

3. Essentials to the sublime. 

A. Conciseness and simplicity. 


B. Strength. 

4. The. sources of the sublime. 

5. The nature of a sublime emotion. 

6. A sublime style. 

T. Opposites to the sublime. 

A. Frigid style. 

B. Bombastic style. 


LECTURE V. —Beauty and other Pleasures of Taste. 86 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Beauty. 

A. The nature of beauty. 

B. Hypotheses of beauty. 

C. The beauty of colors. 

D. The beauty of figures. 

a. Hogarth’s analysis. 

E. The beauty of motion. 

F. Color, figure, and motion united: 


G. The beauty of the human coun¬ 

tenance. 

H. Moral beauty. 

I. Beauty of design. 

K. Beauty of writing. 

2. Novelty. 

3. Imitation. 

4. Melody and harmony. 

5. Writing and discourse. 












102 


CONTENTS. 


LECTURE VI. —Rise and Progress of Language. 44 

ANALYSIS. 


1. Language. 

A. Its present state. 

B. Its origin. 

C. The earliest method of communi¬ 

cating thoughts. 

D. The principle upon which lan¬ 

guage was formed. 

a. "When this principle is ob¬ 

vious. 

b. When it seems to fail. 


2. Pronunciation. 

A. Inflections. 

B. Gestures. 

3. The character of language changed. 

4. The style of early languages. 

A. The employment of figures. 

a. Confirmation of these rea¬ 
sonings. 

B. The origin of prose. 


LECTURE YII. —Rise and Progress of Language and of 'W’riting...53 


1. Arrangement. 

A. Origin of arrangement. 

B. Arrangement of ancient 

guages. 

C. Arrangement of modern 

guages. 

2. Writing. 

A. Signs of things. 


ANALYSIS. 


a. Pictures. 

b. Hieroglyphics. 

Ian- c. Arbitrary marks. 

B. Signs for words. 

Ian- a. Alphabet of syllables. 

b. Alphabetical characters, 
j 3. Comparative advantages of speech and 
‘ writing. 


LECTURE VIII. — Structure of Language. 62 

ANALYSIS. 


The parts of speech. 

1. Nouns. 

A. Distinguished by articles. 

a. Indefinite and definite. 

b. Their importance illustrated. 

B. Number. 

C. Gender. 

a. Its philosophical application. 


b. The advantages of the Eng 
lish language. 

D. Case. 

a. Its signification. 

b. Its variations 

2. Pronouns. 

A. Their origin. 

3. Adjectives. 


LECTURE IX. —Structure of Language—English Tongue. 70 

ANALYSIS. 


1. Verbs. 

A. Tenses. 

a. Present, past, and future. 

B. Voices. 

C. Moods. 

D. Conjugation. 

a. Of ancient languages. 

b. Of modern languages. 

C. Auxiliaries. 


2. Adverbs. 

3. Prepositions. 

4. Conjunctions. 

5. The sources of the English language. 

A. Its disadvantages. 

B. Its advantages. 

6. The flexibility of language. 

7. The character of the English language. 

A. The necessity of studying it. 


LECTURE X. —Style—Perspicuity and Precision 


78 


1. The definition of style. 

2. The qualities of a good style. 

A. Perspicuity. 

a. Purity. 

b. Propriety. 


ANALYSIS. 

c. Precision. 

B. A loose style. 

C. Synonymous words. 

a. Examples of discriminations. 

D. Concluding remarks. 


LECTURE XI. —Structure of Sentences 


86 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The definition of a sentence. 

2. Long and short sentences. 

A. The distinction of French critics. 

3. Essential properties of a perfect sen¬ 

tence. 


A. Clearness and precision. 

a. In the position of adverbs. 

b. In the interposition of sen¬ 

tences. 

c. In the distribution of relatives. 













CONTENTS. 


403 


B. Unity. 

a. The scene not to be changed. 

b. Distinct subjects not to be intro¬ 

duced in the same sentence. 


c. Parentheses in the middle of sen¬ 

tences to be avoided. 

d. Sentences to be brought to a full 

and perfect close. 


LECTURE XII. —Structure of Sentences. 94 

ANALYSIS. 


1. Strength. 

A. Bedundant words. 

a. Bedundant members. 

B. Attention to the situation of 

copulatives, relatives, &c. 

a. The splitting of particles. 

b. The multiplication and omis¬ 

sion of them. 

c. The copulative and. 


C. The disposition of the capital words in 

sentences. 

a. Advantages of the Greek and 
Latin languages. 

D. The proper succession of sentences. 

E. Sentences not to be concluded with ad¬ 

verbs, &c. 

F. Contrasted sentences. 


LECTURE XIII. —Structure of Sentences—Harmony. 102 

ANALYSIS. 


1. Sounds independent of the sense. 

A. The choice of words. 

B. The arrangement of words and 

sentences. 

a. The distribution of the mem¬ 

bers of a sentence. 

b. The close of a sentence. 


2. Sounds adapted to the sense. 

A. Adapted to the tenor of a dis¬ 

course. 

B. Adapted to the objects described. 

a. Other sounds. 

b. Motion. 

c. Emotions and passions. 


LECTURE XIV. —Origin and Nature of Figurative Language ... 110 

ANALYSIS. 


1. General remarks. 

2. Definitions of figures. 

A. Figures of words. 

B. Figures of thought 

3. Origin of figures. 

A. The influence of the imagination 
over language. 

4. Languages most figurative at their ori- 

gin. 

5. The advantages of figures. 


A. They enrich language. 

B. They render it more dignified. 

C. They present the principal object 

with its accessory. 

D. They render our views more dis 

tinct. 

6. Different kinds of figures. 

A. Metonymy. 

B. Metalepsis. 

C. Synecdoche. 


LECTURE XV. —Metaphor. 

ANALYSIS. 


1. Metaphor. 

A. The difference between it and the 

comparison. 

B. Its approximation to painting. 

C. Buies for conducting metaphors. 

a. To be suited to the subject. 

b. To be drawn from suitable 

objects. 

c. The resemblance to be clear 

and perspicuous. 


118 


d. Metaphorical and plain language 
not to be jumbled together. 

e. Two metaphors not to meet on the 
same objects. 

f. Different metaphors not to be 
crowded together. 

g. Metaphors not to be too far pur¬ 
sued. 

2. Allegory. 

A. Its nature illustrated. 


LECTURE XVI. —Hyperbole—Personification—Apostrophe... 127 

ANALYSIS. 


1. Hyperbole. 

A. The different kinds of hyperboles. 

a. Those suggested by passion. 

b. Those employed in descrip¬ 

tion. 

2. Personification. 

A. The different degrees of this fig¬ 
ure. 


a. The first degree. 

b. The second degree. 

c. The third degree. 

B. Buies for the management o 

personification. 

;. Apostrophe. 

A. Examples. 










404 


CONTENTS. 


LECTURE XVII. —Comparison, Antithesis, Interrogation, Ex¬ 
clamation, and other Figures of Speech. 135 

ANALYSIS. 

c. Comparisons not to be drawn from 
unknown objects. 

d. Not to be taken from low or mean 
objects. 

2. Antithesis. 

3. Interrogation; exclamation. 

4. Vision. 

5. Climax. 


1. Comparison. 

A : Explaining comparisons. 

B. Embellishing comparisons. 

C. Rules concerning comparisons. 

a. The resemblance not to be 

obvious. 

b. The likeness not to be too 

remote. 


LECTURE XVIII. —Figurative Language—General Characters 
of Style—Diffuse, Concise, Feeble, Nervous, Dry, Plain, Neat, 
Elegant, Flowery. 143 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The appropriate use of figures. 

A. The first direction. 

B. The second direction. 

C. The third direction. 

D. The fourth direction. 

2. Style, with respect to its expression. 

A. The diffuse and the concise stylo. 


B. The nervous and the feeble style. 

3. Style, with respect to ornament. 

A. A dry style. 

B. A plain style. 

C. A neat style. 

D. An elegant style. 

E. A florid style. 


LECTURE XIX. —General Characters of Style—Simple, Af¬ 
fected, Vehement—Directions for Forming a Proper Style... 151 

ANALYSIS. 


1. Simplicity of style. 

A. Simplicity of composition. 

B. Simplicity in opposition to refine¬ 

ment. 

C. Simplicity in opposition to orna¬ 

ment. 

D. Simplicity of expression. 

a. Illustrated. 

E. Affectation in style. 


2. The vehement style. 

3. Directions for attaining a good stylo. 

A. Clear ideas to be studied. 

B. Frequency of composition. 

C. Familiarity with the best authors. 

D. Servile imitation to be avoided. 

E. Style to be adapted to the subject. 

F. Thoughts to be attended to rather 

than style. 


LECTURE XX. — Critical Examination of Mr. Addison’s Style, 
in No. 411 of the Spectator.. 159 


LECTURE XXI. —Critical Examination of the Style in No. 412 
of the Spectator. 168 


LECTURE XXII. — Critical Examination of the Style in No. 418 
of the Spectator. 176 


LECTURE XXIII. —Eloquence or Public Speaking—History of 
Eloquence—Grecian Eloquence—Demosthenes. 184 


analysis. 


Eloquence. 

1. The definition of eloquence. 

A. Conviction and persuasion. 

2. The degrees of eloquence. 

A. To please only. 

B. To please and to instruct 

C. To interest and to agitato. 

a. The offspring of passion. 


3. The character of eloquence. 

4. Its origin. 

A. Athens. 

a. Pisistratus. 

b. Pericles. 

c. The sophists. 

d. Isocrates. 

i e. Demosthenes—his style. 












CONTENTS. 


405 


LECTURE XXIY. —Roman Eloquence—Cicero—Modern Elo¬ 
quence . 192 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Roman eloquence. 

A. Its origin. 

B. Cicero. 

a. His excellences. 

b. His defects. 

c. Compared with Demos¬ 

thenes. 

C. Eloquence among the Romans of 

short continuance. 


D. Eloquence of the church. 

2. Modern eloquence. 

A. Of France. 

B. Of Great Britain. 

C. Why modern eloquence is lim¬ 

ited. 

a. The bar. 

b. The pulpit. 


LECTURE XXY. —Different Kinds of Public Speaking—Elo¬ 


quence of Popular Assemblies..... 200 


analysis. 


Different kinds of public speaking. 

1. Eloquence of popular assemblies. 

A. The foundation of all eloquence. 

a. The first requisite for popu¬ 

lar speaking. 

b. The second requisite. 

c. The practice of young speak¬ 

ers. 

B. Debate in popular assemblies. 

a. The necessity of premedita¬ 
tion. 


b. Method always to be observed. 

C. The style of popular eloquence. 

a. The warmth suited to the sub¬ 

ject. 

b. Never to be counterfeited. 

c. Not to be carried too far. 

d. The public ear to be regarded. 

e. Decorums to be observed. 

f. Conciseness and diffuseness con¬ 

sidered. 


LECTURE XXVI. —Eloquence of the Bar 


208 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Eloquence of the bar. 

A. Differs from popular eloquence. 

a. The first difference. 

b. The second. 

c. The third. 

B. Ancient orations not models for 

modern pleaders. 

C. Requisites for a lawyer’s success. 

a. A profound knowledge of his 
profession. 


b. Eloquence in pleading. 

D. Directions for speaking at the bar. 

a. Be calm and temperate. 

b. Avoid verbosity. 

c. Be clear and distinct. 

d. Be concise in narration. 

e. Be candid in stating an opponent’s 

arguments. 

f. Be warm and earnest. 


LECTURE XXVII. —Eloquence of the Pulpit 


216 


ANALYSIS. 


Pulpit eloquence. 

1. Its advantages. 

2. The difficulties that attend it. 

A. An objection to it considered. 

8. An habitual view of its object essential. 

4. The character of the preacher. 

5. The characteristics of pulpit eloquence. 

6. Directions for composing sermons. 

A. Unity to be attended to. 


B. The subject to be particular. 

C. Not to be exhausted. 

D. The instructions to be interesting. 

a. Knowledge of human nature. 

E. No particular model to be fol¬ 

lowed. 

7. The style. 

8. Reading sermons considered. 


LECTURE XXVIII. —Conduct of a Discourse in all its Parts— 
Introduction—Division—Narration and Explication. 224 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The component parts of a discourse. 

A. The introduction. 

a. To be easy and natural. 

b. To be correct in the expres¬ 

sion. 

c. To be modest. 

d. To be calmly conducted. 

e. Not to anticipate the subject. 

B. The enunciation. 

C. The division. 


a. The parts to be distinct. 

b. The order of nature to be fol¬ 

lowed. 

c. The members to exhaust the 

style. 

d. The division to be expressed with 

precision. 

e. The heads not to be unnecessarily 

multiplied. 

D. Narration or explication. 












406 


CONTENTS. 


LECTURE XXIX. —The Argumentative Part of a Discourse—- 
The Pathetic Part—The Peroration. 282 


ANALYSIS. 


1. The arguments of a discourse. 

A. The invention of arguments. 

B. The analytic and synthetic me¬ 

thods. 

2. The proper disposition of arguments. 

A. Not to be blended together. 

B. The order of climax to be ob¬ 

served. 

0. Strong arguments to be treated 
distinctly. 


D. Not to be extended too far. 

3. The pathetic part of a discourse. 

A. Discretion to be observed. 

B. The hearers not to be warned to 

prepare for it. 

a. The speaker to be himself 
affected. 

C. The language of passion to be ob¬ 

served. 

4. The conclusion. 


LECTURE XXX. —Pronunciation, or Delivery 


ANALYSIS. 


Delivery. 

1. Audibleness of voice. 

2. Distinctness of articulation. 

3. Propriety of pronunciation. 

4. Bequisites for speaking. 

A. Emphasis. 


B. Pauses. 

a. Emphatical pause. 

b. Caesural pause. 

C. Tones. 

D. Gestures. 

a. Affectation to be avoided. 


LECTURE XXXI. —Means of Improving in Eloquence 

ANALYSIS. 


239 


247 


1. Preliminary observations. 

2. Bequisites for being eloquent. 

A. Virtuous habits. 

B. A fund of knowledge. 

a. Familiarity with general 
literature requisite. 

C. Industry and application. 

A. Attention to the best models. 


a. Written and spoken language dis¬ 
tinguished. 

E. Frequent exercise in composition. 

a. Exercises of speaking. 

F. The study of critical writers requisite. 

a. Aristotle; Cicero. 

b. Quintilian. 


LECTURE XXXII. —Comparative Merit of the Ancients and 
the Moderns. . 255 

ANALYSIS. 


1. The ancients and the moderns com¬ 
pared. 

A. Eemarkable phenomenon. 

a. Four of these happy ages. 

B. The ancient classics not to be de¬ 

cried. 

a. Not indebted for their celeb¬ 
rity to schools. 


C. The ancients not to be blindly vene¬ 

rated. 

D. Favorable circumstances of ancient 

times. 

E. Good writing now not so diffi¬ 

cult. 

F. Concluding remarks. 


263 


LECTURE XXXIII. —Historical Writing 


ANALYSIS. 


Historical writing. 

1. Unity to be attended to. 

2. Actions to be traced to their source. 

A. Bequisites for this. 

3. The qualities of the narration. 

A. Clearness, order, and connection. 

B. Gravity to be preserved. 

C. The narrative to be interesting. 


a. The ancients eminent in this. 

D. Orations employed by the an¬ 

cients. 

E. Delineation of characters. 

F. Sound morality indispensable. 

4. Modern historians. 

5. Annals; memoirs; biography 


LECTURE XXXIV. —Philosophical Writing—Dialogue—Epis¬ 
tolary Writing—Fictitious History. 271 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Philosophical writing. 

A. Accuracy and precision requisite. 

B. The style. 

2. Dialogues. 


A. Ancient dialogists. 

B. Modern dialogists. 

3. Epistolary writing. 

A. A distinct species of composition. 














CONTENTS. 


407 


a. Its requisites. 

B. Ancient letters. 

C. Modern letters. 

4. Fictitious history. 

LECTURE XXXV.— Nature of 

GRESS- V ERSIFICATION. 


A. Lord Bacon’s remark. 

B. Its origin. 

C. Its different forms. 

D. Its present state. 

Poetry—Its Origin and Pro- 

. 279 


ANALYSIS. 


Poetry. 

1. The definition of poetry. 

2. Its origin and antiquity. 

A. Illustrated. 

3. The different kinds undistinguished. 

4. Its early characteristics. 

5. English versification. 


A. Contrasted with ancient. 

B. The accent. 

6. The csesural pause. 

A. Its effect when differently placed. 

7. Blank verse. 

8. The introduction of couplets. 


LECTURE XXXVI. —Pastoral Poetry—Lyric. Poetry. 287 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Pastoral poetry. 

A. Its origin and its nature. 

B. The state of pastoral society. 

C. The scene. 

D. The characters. 

a. Illustrated. 

E. The subjects. 

F. Ancient pastorals. 


G. Modern pastorals. 

a. Their relative merits. 

2. Lyric poetry. 

A. The nature of the ode. 

a. Different kinds of odes 

b. Its enthusiasm. 

c. Ancient odes. 

d. Modern odes. 


LECTURE XXXVII. —Didactic Poetry—Descriptive Poetry... 295 


ANALYSIS. 


1. Didactic poetry. 

A. The manner of its execution. 

a. To be rendered interesting. 

b. Proper order essential. 

c. The episodes to be skilfully 

connected with the main 
subject. 

B. Didactic writers of eminence. 

a. Akenside; Armstrong. 

b. Young. 


c. Goldsmith and Campbell. 

C. Satires and poetical epistles. 

2. Descriptive poetry. 

A. The selection of circumstances. 

B. Distinguished descriptive poets. 

a. Thomson; Cowper. 

b. Parnell; Milton. 

c. Homer; Virgil; Ossian. 

C. The choice of epithets. 


LECTURE XXXVIII. —The Poetry of the Hebrews. 304 

ANALYSIS. 


1. Introductory remarks. 

2. The diversity of style of the Old Testa¬ 

ment. 

3. The peculiar construction of Hebrew 

poetry. 

A. Its origin. 

4. Figurative language of the Scriptures. 

A. Its boldness. 

B. Imagery peculiar to themselves. 


a. Illustrated. 

C. Eeligious rites, &e., employed. 

D. Comparisons. 

E. Allegory. 

F. Personification. 

5. The different kinds of Hebrew poetry. 

A. Distinguished Hebrew poets. 

B. The book of Job. 


LECTURE XXXIX.— Epic Poetry 


Epic poetry. 

1. The definition of an epic poem. 

A. Its design. 

2. The character of the epic. 

A. Unity in the action, 

a. Illustrated. 

b. Episodes—their requisites. 

B. The action to be great. 


ANALYSIS. 

0. To be interesting also, 
a. The close. 

D. The time of the action. 

3. The personages. 

A. The hero. 

B. The machinery. 

4. The narration. 


312 













408 


CONTENTS. 


LECTURE XL. —Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey—Virgil’s ^Eneid— 
Lucan’s Pharsalia. 320 

ANALYSIS. 


Homer 

1. The Iliad. 

A. The subject happy. 

B. The poet’s invention. 

** 0. His characters. 

a. Helen; Paris; Achilles. 

D. The style. 

E. The narration. 

2. The Odyssey. 

Yirgil. 


1. The ADneid. 

A. The subject. 

a. Its unity. 

B. Yirgil’s defects. 

0. His excellences. 

2. Homer and Yirgil compared. 
Lucan. 

1. His Pharsalia 

A. The subject defective. 

B. Its general character. 


LECTURE XLI. —Tasso’s Jerusalem—Camoens’ Lusiad—Fene- 
lon’s Telemachus—Voltaire’s Henriade—Milton’s Paradise 
Lost.. 328 


1. Tasso’s Jerusalem. 

A. His invention. 

B. His characters. 

a. The machinery. 

b. The descriptions. 

C. An objection to the poem. 

2. Camoens’ Lusiad. 

A. The subject 

a. The machinery. 

3. Fenelon’s Telemachus. 

A. Its general character. 


ANALYSIS. 

a. The visit to the shades. 

4. Yoltaire’s Henriade. 

A. The subject. 

a. The machinery. 

b. The sentiment 

5. Milton’s Paradise Lost 

A. The subject. 

B. The characters. 

C. The sublimity—the tenderness. 

D. The style and versification. 


LECTURE XLII.—Dramatic Poetry—Tragedy. 337 


ANALYSIS. 


Dramatic poetry. 

1. Tragedy. 

A. Favorable to virtue. 

B. The subject. 

C. Its origin. 

a. The chorus. 

D. Unity o f action. 

a. Simplicity of plot. 


b. Unity of the acts. 

c. Tragedy gratifying. 

d. The scenes. 

E. Unity of time and place. 

a. The characters. 

b. Love in modern tragedy. 

c. The sentiments. 

d. The style and versification. 


LECTURE XLIII. —Greek Tragedy—French Tragedy—English 
Tragedy...*. 345 


ANALYSIS. 


1. G-reek tragedy. 

A. iEschylus. 

B. Sophocles. 

C. Euripides. 

a. Manner of representation. 

2. French tragedy. 

A. Corneille. 

B. Bacine. 


C. Yoltaire. 

3. English tragedy. 

A. Shakspeare. 

a. His preternatural beings. 

B. Dryden; Lee; Otway. 

C. Bo we; Young; Thomson. 

4. The conclusion. 


LECTURE XLIV. —Comedy—Ancient Comedy—Modern Comedy 353 


Comedy. 

1. The nature of comedy. 

2. Buies concerning it. 

8. The subject. 

A. A perfect comedy. 
4. The characters. 

6. The style. 

6. Ancient comedy. 


ANALYSIS. 

A. Aristophanes. 

B. Plautus; Terence. 

7. Spanish comedy. 

8. French comedy. 

9. English comedy. 

A. Its character. 

B. The principal comic writers. 

10. An improvement in comedy. 











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Cr6billon. 

La Fontaine. 

Racan. 

Vigny (do) 

Delavigne. 

Lamartine. 

Racine. 

Voltaire. 

Delille. 

La Bailly. 

Regnard. 



PROSE. 


Aguesseau (cT). 

Cousin. 

Maistre (J. de). 

Saintine. 

Aim6-Martin. 

Cuvier. 

Marmontel. 

Salvandy. 

Arago. 

D’Alembert. 

Mascaron. 

Sand. 

Ballanche. 

Diderot. 

Massillon. 

Saurin. 

Balzac (Guez de). 

Duclos. 

Maury. 

Scribe. 

Balzac (H. de). 

Dumas. 

Mezeray. 

Segur. 

Barante. 

Fenelon. 

Michaud. 

Sevignd (Mme. de, 

Barthelemy. 

Flechier. 

Michelet. 

Sismondi. 

Beaumarchais. 

Fontenelle 

Mirabeau. 

Stael (Mme. de' v 

B. de St. Pierre. 

Guenard. 

Moliere. 

Thierry (A.) 

Bonaparte (N.) 

Guizot. 

Montesquieu. 

Thiers. 

Bossuet. 

Hugo. 

Nodier. 

Thomas. 

Bourdaloue. 

La Bruydre, 

Pascal. 

Yauvenargues. 

Bridaine. 

Lacepede. 

Raynal. 

Vertot. 

Buffon. 

La Harpe. 

Rollin. 

Vigny (A. de) 

Chamfort. 

Lamartine. 

Rousseau (J. J.) 

Villemain. 

Chateaubriand. 

Lamennais. 

Sainte-Beuve. 

Volney. 

Cormenin. 

La Rochefocauld. 

Saint-Real. 

Voltaire. 

Courier.' 

Mably. 

Saint-Simon. 



A revised and improved edition, enriched with Biographical and 
Critical Notes, and with Selections from Writers of the present time. 


Le Si6ge de la Rochelle, par Mme. de Genlis 12mo. $1 

“ Wo have read with great pleasure ‘Le Siege de la Bochelle,’ and 
recommend it as one of the best books for translation there is publish 


4 



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fcfl. It is considered one of the most popular of Mme. de Genlis’ works, 
whose name is wei 1 known in French literature. The narrative is in 
tensely interesting, and will command attention to the close. Though 
a work of fiction, the incidents are partly founded on fact: the historical 
scenes and characters are correctly drawn, and present a fair view of 
this most eventful period of French history. 

“Containing none but just and morsL sentiments, it is admirably 
adapted to be used as a School Eeadcr, and we trust that it will meet 
with the favor it deserves.” 

Le Vicaire de Wakefield, par Goldsmith. 12mo. 75 cts. 

In translating this beautiful English Classic into French, special care 
has been taken to preserve the beauty and simplicity of the style ; and 
we trust that the present effort to render it a School Reading Book will 
meet with favor. 

CEuvres Completes de Moliere. 2 v. 12mo. 1334 pp. $2.00 

This edition contains all the works of this great author* and is beau¬ 
tifully printed, on fine paper. 

CEuvres Choisies de Moliere : contenant La Bourgeois Gentil 
homme, Le Misanthrope, etLes Femmes Savantes. 18mo. 63 c. 

The editor has carefully revised the text, and has faithfully followed 
the most approved Paris editions. As to the Comedies selected, though 
many others of the same writer are at least equal, if not superior, in 
merit, it must be remembered that this is a Moliere intended for schools 
and for the use of young persons, and the selection has been made in 
reference to that object. 

CEuvres Completes de J. Racine : contenant, La Th6balde, ou 
Les Frferes ennemis—Alexandre—Andromaque—Les Plaideurs 
—Brittanicus — Berenice — Bajazet — Mithridate — Iphigenie— 
Phbdre—Esther—Athalie. Edition annotee d’apr&s Racine fils, 
Madame de Sevigne, Le Batteux, Voltaire, La Harpe, Napoleon, 
Schleyel, Roger, Geoffroi, Patin, Sainte-Beuve, Saint-Marc Gi- 
rardin, Nisard, etc. 12mo. 760 pp. $1. 

AVIS SUR CETTE EDITION. 

Parmi les grands 6crivains qui honorent notre literature, il en est peu 
dont les oeuvres aient ete aussi frequemment reproduces que celles de 
Racine. Les grammairiens, les critiques etles commentateurs litteraires, 
ont depuis deux siecles etuaie ses compositions sceniques pour y cher- 
ctfier les uns des modeles de style, les autres le module de Part et da 

5 



f, 

# 

BOOKS PUBLISHED 13 X ROE LOCKWOOD & SOS. 


goth, et les nombreux travaux dont ce poete a jamais celebre a 6t$ 
l’objet, nous imposaient de grandes obligations; aussi nous sommes- 
nous efforce de rendre irreprochablc l’edition que nous publions au 
jourd’hui. 

Nous avons donne d’abord toutes les prefaces, parce qu’elles forment 
Pindispensable introduction des pieces; qu’elles en contiennent sou- 
vent ranalyse et l’examen, et que Eacine y developpe avec la superiority 
de son genie ses theories esthetiques. 

Nous avons aussi reproduit toutes les variantes, parce qu’on voit la 
les premiers essais du poete, le travail de son gout dans le choix des 
mots, et son constant effort pour approcher autant que possible de la 
perfection. * * * Comme toujours, nous avons fait predominer le 
eommentairo moral et psychologique, et en rapportant a l’occasion le 
jugement des contemporains du poete, a partir du grand Conde et de 
madame de Sevigne, nous avons suivi, en ce qu’ils ont de plus saillant, 
les travaux des critiques et des historiens litteraires, depuis Eacine fils, 
jnsqu’a messieurs Sainte-Beuve, Nisard et Saint-Marc Girardin. On a 
do la sorte, dans le blame et dans l’eloge, l’echo fidele de Fopixiion dans 
un espace de pres de deux siecles. 

Ainsi, notre edition offre, jusque dans les moindres variantes et les 
moindres fragments, tout ce que Eacine a ecrit pour le theatre, et sous 
une forme concise tout ce que l’histoire litteraire a dit de plus essentiel 
eur ce theatre lui-m6me. 

CEuvres Choisies de Jean Racine: contenant Bajazet, Andro- 
maque, Iphig£nie et Esther. 18mo. 63 cts. 

it has long been desirable that the works of this great poet should bo 
used in our schools as a reading-book; but as his writings are too 
voluminous for that purpose, a proper selection of his best pieces has 
been made. This selection the editor trusts will prove acceptable to all 
instructors and professors of the French language, as well as to all 
interested in French literature. 

It is printed with great accuracy, thus removing the usual objection 
to the editions of French works published in this countrv 

De 1’ Allemagne, par Mme. De Stael. 12mo. 638 pp. $1. 

This has been considered the most popular of Mme. De StaeJ’s 
works, and has always sustained a high literary reputation. 

Presenting an interesting and truthful Description of Germany—the 
Manners and Customs of the Germans—their Literature, Arts, and 
Sciences—Views of Philosophy, Morals, and Eeligion—and thus com¬ 
bining instruction with the study of the language, it is pre-eminently 
adapted for an advanced class-book- 

4 


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It. has for some time been a matter of doubt whether the “Adventure* 
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lieve it is now generally conceded to be the production of the latter. 

Although not free from objections for indiscriminate use, yet it has 
always been considered a desirable book for translation, from the fact 
that, consisting as it does of a series of narratives abounding in collo¬ 
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not wearied as he would be by a lengthy story, the interest continuing 
as the scene changes. 

Fables de La Fontaine. 100 engravings. 18mo. 6^ cts. 

La Fontaine’s beautiful Fables are known to every French scholar 
and are admirably adapted to be used as a book for translation. 

Each fable is followed by its appropriate moral; and thus just prin¬ 
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while engaged in his study. 

Atala, Ren§, par Chateaubriand. 12mo. 50 cts. 

The beauty of Chateaubriand’s writings has established for him a 
high literary reputation. 

This little work has always been considered the most popular of his 
minor productions, and was originally a part of the“ Genie du Ghristia- 
nisme,” although latterly it has been generally published in a separate 
form. 

It was written, as the author says, “ in the wil is of America, and 
under the tents of the savages,” and the incident on which the story 
is founded is mentioned in his “Voyages en Amerique.” 

I-t is printed from the author’s last edition, and in a large clear type, 
and the Publishers hope that it will meet with favor as a Beading 
Book for school use. 

Paul et Virginie, par Bernardin de Saint-Pierre. 50 cts. 

“This most delightful work is too favorably known to require any 
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gether with the interest of the story, have always rendered it a favorite 
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schools, wiU meet with general acceptance.” 

The same work, with a Full and Correct Vocabulary of all the 
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Elisabeth, on Les Eddies de Siberie, par Mme. Cottin 

12mo. 50 cts. 

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ments so noble and elevated. The heart alone could inspire them. * * 
Authors have frequently been accused of representing the beauties o 
virtue with too bold a pencil, and in colors too vivid. Far am I, however, 
from presuming to insinuate that this criticism is applicable to myself, who 
possess not the abilities requisite to attain this brilliant though creative 
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author, by all the studied embellishments and decorations of language, to 
add a single charm to the innate beauties of virtue. On the contrary, she 
is in herself so far superior to the adscititious aids of ornament, that it 
would rather appear impossible to describe her in all her native dignity 
and loveliness. This is the chief difficulty I have experienced in writing 
Elisabeth.”— Translation of extract from Author's preface. 


The same work, with a Full and Correct Vocabulary of all the 
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Conversational Phrases Classified, or French Bynonimes, 
by J. L. Mabire. 16mo. 45 cts. 


Most of the Guides to French Conversation heretofore published in 
this country have been merely collections of certain conversations on 
specified subjects, which, unless they were again to recur in the precise 
form of the lesson, would be of but little assistance to the student. In 
other words, he but stores his mind with set formal phrases for specific 
occasions, without an acquaintance with the genius and power of the 
language, or the ability to adapt his knowledge to the peculiar and va 
ried circumstances of every-day life. 

This work is arranged on an entirely new flan. It consists of the 
most familiar phrases of every-day conversation, classified according to 
their sense under various appropriate heads, such as the following: 


1. To tire, weary, grow tired. 

2 To affirm, assure, warrant, attest. 

3. ’ To obey, yield, submit. 

4. To imagine, believe, persuade one’s self. 

5. To admire, astonish, surprise. 

6. To depart, set out, travel, ride. 

7. To light, kindle, blow, extinguish. 

8. To warm, cool, dry, wet. 

9. To laugh, smile, weep, joke. 

10. To dance, salute, greet, bow. 


11. To design, draw, sketch, paint. 

12 To pray, beseech, ask, entreat. 

13. To approve, consent, permit, tolerate 

14. To lodge, live, dwell, remove. 

15. To raise, lift, open, shut. 

16. To rail, slander, insult, injure. 

17. To commend, praise, flatter, compliment. 

18. To blame, reprimand, criticise. 

19. To place, put, set, lay, arrange. 

20. To contemn, despise, depreciate, d us data 


With an Alphabetical Index. 




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It is divided into 236 similar heads, besides containing Models of 
Notes, Invitations, Letters, the most, Difficult and Common English 
Idioms, &c. 

It has acquired an extraordinary popularity in England, having, in 
a few years passed through many editions, numbering over 100,000 copies, 

Le Livre des Petits Enfants, avec Vocabulaire. 50 cts 

This little volume of Easy Tales was published in France for the use 
of Young Children who had just learned to read. The design of the 
authoress was, by a series of entertaining narratives, to allure the 
Young onward in the path of learning, and at the same time to imbue 
their minds with sentiments of religion and virti e, and of love for the 
Sacred Scriptures. 

To the carefully printed text is added a literal English translation oi 
the first ten stories, and a full vocabulary to the remaining ones. 

These facilities, together with the simple style of the stories them¬ 
selves, render this book one of the easiest for translation. 

Mrs. Barbauld’s Lessons for Children, in French, with 
a Vocabulary. 16mo. 45 cts. 

To attempt a eulogy of j^Mrs. Barbauld’s Lessons for Children” 
would be superfluous. We only remark that, on account of its extreme 
simplicity, no book is better suited for young persons commencing the 
study of French. 

It is translated with great care, and is beautifully printed on a larg* 
clear type, with illustrations. 

“ The task is humble, but not mean; for to lay the first stone of a 
noble building, and to plant the first idea of a beautiful language in a 
human mind, can be no dishonor to any hand.”— Mrs. B.'s Preface. 

First Lessons in Learning French, by Prof. Gustave 
Chouquet. 16mo. 45 cts. 

This work is intended for pupils commencing the study of the French 
language in such a work it is not necessary that the rules of grammar 
should be formally introduced; they serve rather to weary and embar 
rass than to profit. 

In design and execution it is so simple as to be within the reach of 
any child, however young, who is capable of reading in English. The 
present edition is much enlarged and improved, and printed on very 
large tjpe. It is divided into six parts, as follows, viz.: 

Part 1. Spelling Lessons, designed also for Exercises in Pronunciation, 

Part IT. Simnlo and Progressive I wessons in Grammar an d Translation 

. 9 



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Pabt III. A Vocabulary of the most Common and Familiar Objects 
together with appropriate Exercises in Phrases and Short Sen 
tences; the whole divided into lessons, each embracing a dis¬ 
tinct Subject. 

Part IV. Examples of French Verbs, auxiliary, regular and refleo- 
tive, fully conjugated. 

Part V. A few simple Stories, the first few followed by a Translation 
of the more difficult Words and Idioms. 

Part VI. A collection of simple and familiar Conversational Phrases, 
divided into short and easy lessons. 

French Spelling and Pronunciation, by H. Vannier. 45 ct& 

After a careful examination of the most recent and approved ele¬ 
mentary Spelling-Books published in France, we have selected the 
system of H. Vannier, asbeing the simplest and yet the most methodical. 

It is divided as follows : 

Part I. Exercises on all the Sounds and possible Combinations of 
Articulations and Words. 

Part II. Spelling Lessons, or a Vocabulary of the most useful Nouns 
in the French Language, systematically arranged under distinct 
heads. 

Part III. Examples of French Verbs—auxiliary, regular, and reflect¬ 
ive—fully conjugated. 


SPANISH. 

Del Mar’s Guide to Spanish and English Conversation, 

containing various lists of Words in most general use, properly 
classified ; collections of Complimentary Dialogues and Conver¬ 
sational Phrases on the most general subjects of life ; Proverbs 
and Idioms; also comparative Tables of Coins, Weights, and 
Measures. 12mo. 75 cts. 

In this new edition the Proverbs and Idioms, as well as the Dialogues. 
have been considerably enlarged; the New Orthography has been in¬ 
troduced, according to the last decision of the Spanish Royal Academy; 
aud a Treatise on Spanish Pronunciation has been prefixed. 

These additions will further advance the utility of the work, and ren¬ 
der it stil l more worthy of public favor. 

in 





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# _ 

Vingut’s Ollendoiff’s Spanish Grammar: a New Method ( 1 
Learning to Read, Write, and Speak the Spanish Language: 
with a Figured Pronunciation of the Spanish Words. To 
which is added an Appendix, containing a full explanation of the 
Alphabet, with Exercises in Spelling; a Summary of the Rules 
given in this Method, with a Treatise on the Verbs; a Series of 
Letters for a Mercantile Correspondence, with a Key ; aNew 
Spanish Reader and Translator, being a new method of learning 
to translate from Spanish into English, and from English into 
Spanish, containing Extracts from the most approved works, 
Colloquial Phrases and Words in general use; the whole ar¬ 
ranged in progressive order, with especial reference to those 
who study by Ollendorff’s Method. 12mo. $1.50. 

Key to Vingut’s Ollendorff’s Spanish Grammar. 75 cts 


FOR SPANIARDS LEARNING ENGLISH* 

fingut’s Ollendorff— El Maestro de Ingl6s, metodo practice 
para aprender a leer, escribir y hablar la Lengua Inglesa segun 
el sistema de Ollendorff, dandose una Demonstracion practica 
del modo de escribir y pronunclar cada una de las palabras 
contenidas en las lecciones y un Apendice que contiene los Ele- 
mentos de la Lengua Inglesa, tornados de la ultima edicion de 
Urcullu, publicada en Cadiz en 1845, habiendose correjido y 
aumentado considerablemente; comprendiendo toda la parte 
elemental no refundida en las lecciones precedentes; tambien 
un Tratado sobre la Pronunciacion y otro sobre la Propiedad de 
las Voces, que bajo un mismo significado en espanol tienen dos 6 
mas en ingles, con diferente uso 6 sentido; 6 al contrario, con 
un solo significado en ingles y dos 6 mas en espanol; compren* 
diendo un Lector y Traductor Ingles, 6 sea Kuevo Metodo para 
aprender k traducir del inglds el espanol y vise versa, el cual 
contiene un Guia de la Pronunciacion inglesa, y Direcciones para 
osar los diccionarios de Pronunciacion; una serie de Cartas para 




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una correspondencia mercantil, y algunos trozos escojidos pair 
Lectura y Traduccion. I2mo $2. 

t nslatton): Vingut's Ollendorff—The English Teacher, or Ollen¬ 
dorff's New Method of Learning to Read, Write, and Speak ihe 
English Language, with a Figured Pronunciation of the English 
Words in the Lessons : to which is added an Appendix, containing 
the Elements of the English Language, taken from the last edition 
of Urcullu's Grammar, published in Cadiz in 1845, revised and 
enlarged; also a Treatise on the Pronunciation and various Sig¬ 
nifications of English Words ; also a new Reader and Translator , 
being a New Method of Learning to Translate from English into 
Spanish and from Spanish into English ; a new Guide to Con¬ 
versation; a series of Letters for Mercantile Correspondence , 
&c^ dec. 

Clave de los Ejercicios del Maestro del Ingles. 12mo. $1, 

(translation) : Key to the Exercises of “ Vingut's Ollendorff's English 
Teacher." 

Urcullu. —Nueva Gramatica inglesa reducida a veinte y siete 
lecciones, por Don Jose de Urcullu; edicion reimpresa por pri- 
mera vez en Am6rica, de la Ultima edicion de Cadiz, eonsiderable- 
mente aumentada y correjida, con una Clave de los Temas; un 
Tratado alfabetico de la Propiedad de las Voces, en que sc 
esplica la propiedad de las Voces castillanas que tienen en inglda 
dos 6 mas significados con diferente uso 6 sentido, de lo cual 
pudieran orijinarse equivocaciones, asi en la locucion como en la 
traduccion; un Lector y Traductor ingles, 6 sea Nuevo Metodo 
para aprender & traducir del ingles al espanol y viseversa, el 
cual contiene un Guia de la Pronunciacion inglesa, una serie de 
Cartas para una Correspondencia mercantil, y algunos trozos 
escojidos para lectura y traduccion. 12mo. $1.50. 

(Prologo de Urcullu de la Edicion de Cadiz.') 

ALGUNAS PALABRAS SOBRE ESTA NUEVA EDICION. 

La buena acojida que ha tenido mi gramatica en los veinte anos que 
nan pasado desde que la di a luz, cuando estuve emigrado en Londres, 
me ha movido a publicar una nueva edicion de la misma. En la pri- 
xnera itVvtdl la gramatica en XXII lecciones. Muchas de las edicionoe 



BOOKS PUBLISHED BY ROE LOCKWOOD <fc SON. 


que se lian kecho tanto en aquella capital como en otros paiscs desde 
1825 hasta ahora, han sido copias de la primera. 

Eu 1840, estando yo en Oporto, se imprimio. alii una edicion en XXV 
lecciones, en la cual hice akeraciones de bastante consideracien; pero 
pocos son los ejemplares que ban penetrado en Espana. Por con- 
siguiente para satisfaeer los deseos de muckos profesores de la lengua 
inglesa, era necesario que se imprimiese en Espana mi gramatica; mas 
no eomo se ka kecko antes de ahora en Barcelona, sin mi intervention, 
V copiando los defectos de la que se publico en Londres. 

La presente edicion, dividida en XXVII lecciones, es superior a 
cuantas se han publicado hasta este dia, no solamente por las correc- 
eiones que se han hecho, como por las materias que se kan aumentado. 
Esplicare esto brevemente. 

Cada una de las lecciones XIV, XV, XVIII y XXII se han subdivi- 
dido en dos, para que el discipulo pueda aprenderlas mas facilmente 
siendo mas cortas. He suprimido las lecciones XXIV y XXV, porque 
lo que ellas contenian no perteneeia, estrictamente hablando, a la parte 
gramatical; pero el discipulo lo hallara, con notable aumento al fin del 
iibro en la lista alfabetica de las particulas inglesas. 

En los modelos de traduccion, he introducido algunas maximas de 
buenos autores ingleses. 

Las poesias inglesas que puse en la edicion hecha en Oporto, han sido 
traducidas por mi al castellano. El Herald ode Madrid publied una 
de ellas el ano pasado, y un periddico de Cadiz la otra este ano. He 
aumentado una poesia inglesa, no como modelo, sino para que el dis¬ 
cipulo se ejercite en la traduccion de los numerosos verbos que ella 
contiene. 

La parte tercera de la obra, que no tienen las ediciones anteriores, se 
compone: 1°. de una lista alfabetica de las principales particulas ingle¬ 
sas y su uso en dieha lengua, que antes formaba el asunto de las dos 
ultimas lecciones, como ya se ha mencionado. 2°. De una esplicacion 
de muchas palabras y abreviaturas latinas muy usadas en los periodicos 
ingleses, y algunas vozes francesas, que forman parte de la lengua in¬ 
glesa. 3°. De varios documentos de comercio utiles para los que pien- 
sen dedicarse a la carrera mercantil. 4°. Einalmente, de una lista de 
abreviaturas inglesas, que tambien puedo asegurar es la mas completa 
que hasta ahora se ha publicado en Espana. Lo primero y cuarto ha 
”ecibidc un aumento considerable; lo segundo y tercero es enteramente 
nuevo. 

En la parte gramatical he hecho correcciones y alteraciones que solo 
pueden notarse cotejando esta edicion con otras anteriores. 

Si el publico ha recibido dntes de ahora favorablemente mi gramatica, 
debo suponer sin ninguna clase de presuncion que todavia ha de mere- 
jgi mas su aprobacion la que hoy le ofrezco; y que ya no se podid deck 

13 



BOOKS PUBLISHED BY ROE LOCKWOOD & SON. 


sjcn razon en lo adelante que era necesario vaierse de gramaticas escnla' 
en francos para aprender la lengua inglesa. 

Es muy probable que esta sea la ultima edicion que yo publique, y 
mas si, $omo presumo, los lazos de familia me obligan a dejar la hermosa 
Espana para establecerme nuevamente en el reino vecino, que por la 
larga serie de anos que en el be pasado y por los vinculos que a el m< 
uncn considero como a una segunda patria. 

ADVERTENCIA. 

A1 reimprimir por primera vez en America la ultima edicion de la 
nueva Gramatica de Don Jose de Urcullu, publicada en Cadiz por el 
rnisrno autor con las considerables mejoras que esplica en su Prologo, 
bemos becho todo lo que ba estado a nuestro alcance paia mejcrar la 
obra, lo que creemos haber conseguido por los medios siguientes: 

1°. Arreglando la conjugacion de los verbos, segun las mejores 
gramaticas inglesas, anadiendole por eonsiguiente el modo Potencial, 
desconocido en nuestra conjugacion, por cuya razon la mayor parte de 
los gramaticos lo ban confundido con nuestro Subjuntivo, que es a todas 
luces distinto en su uso y aplicacion, despojando asi a la conjugacion 
inglesa de la inmensa ventaja que en precision y enerjia le dan sus 
auxiliares. 

2°. Ampliando la leccion sobre los verbos auxiliares, la del uso del 
futuro, la del subjuntivo y la de las preposiciones, y redactando enters 
la del imperativo. 

3°. Anadiendo las notas que se ban estimado necesarias, y aun refu 
tando las opiniones del autor cuando se ban creido errada3. 

4°. Dan do reglas para la division de las silabas. 

5°. Enriqueciendo la lista de las abreviaturas inglesas, e igualmenU 
la de las eliciones. 

6°. Anadiendo un Tratado de la Propiedad do aquellas voces que, 
teniendo en espanol varias acepciones, se espresa cn ingle's cada acep- 
oion, con diferente palabra. 

7°. Agregando un Lector y Traductor ingles bajo un plan entera- 
mente nuevo, concluyendo con una serie de carton para ilevar una cor- 
respondeneia mercantil. 

8°. Finalniente, publicando una Clave de los Temas que se ballara 
al fin de la obra para que el discipulo compare con ella la traducciou 
que bfcgs de los que se dan en la Gramatica. La ventaja de este Clave, 
tvur para los que estudien con maestro, es demasiado obv’a para qua 
. nos detengamos en recomendarla. 

Si a todas las mejoras mencionadas se anaden las beclras por el mismo 
autor, segun lo esplica en el Prologo siguiente, facil sera penetrarse do 
as inmensas mejoras de esta edicion sobre todas las anteriores. 

Uni>j: tidad de Nueva York, Jgosto de 1852. E. J. VINGCJT 

14 



BOOKS PUBLISHED BY ROE LOCKWOOD <fc SON. 


Robertson. Nuevo Curso practico, analitico, teorico y sintetico de 
Idiorna Ingles; escrito para los Franceses por T. Robertson 
obra aprobada por la Universidad de Paris; traducida y 
adaptada al Castellano sobre la ultima edicion del original poi 
Pedro Jose Rojas. 8vo. $3.00. 

“La Academia Real de Buenos Letras de la Isla de Puerto Rico, 
despues de haber oido a su Comision de Instruccion publica acerca del 
Nuevo Curso de Ingles por Robertson, i daptado al Castellano por Don 
P. J. Rojas, y considerando que dicba obra reune a su claridad, precision 
y correcto lenguage, una gran facilidad para la adquisicion del idiorna 
ingles, y un metodo admirable para la pronunciacion de las palabras, 
ha ordenado que dicha obra se tenga por unico texto en las escuelas y 
colegios, de la Isla.—Puerto Rico, febrero 10 de 1852.—El Capitan 
General, Pezuela.” 

“La Direccion General de Estudios de la Repuhlica de Venezuela, 
habiendo examinacto cuidadosamente el Nuevo Curso de Ingles por 
Robertson, adaptado al Castellano por el Senor P. J. Rojas, y consider- 
andolo sumamente util y eficaz para la ensenanza de aquel idioma, ha 
aeordado se incluya dicha obra en el catalogo de textos para los Colegios 
y escuelas nacionales.—Caracas 4 de Junio de 1851.—Por la Direccion, 
J. Vargas, Presidente.” 

("translation): Robertsonian System; a New Practical, Analytical, 
Theoretical, and Synthetical Course of the English Language, 
written originally for the French, and approved by the University 
of Paris. Translated, and Adapted to the Spanish Language, 
by Pedro Jose Rojas. 

The Royal Academy of the Island of Porto Rico, after hearing the Com 
mittee of Public Instruction in regard to the New Course of the English 
Language by Robertson, translated into Spanish by Mr. P. J. Rojas, and 
considering that said worh combines with clearness, precision, and a correct 
style , a great and wonderful facility for acquiring so difficult a language 
as the English, and that it contains likewise an admirable method of English 
pronunciation , has in its last session ordered this work to be used as the only 
English text-book in all the schools of the Island.—Porto Rico, February 10 th, 
1851 .—J. de la Pezuela, Captain General A 

“The General Direction of Studies in the Republic of Venezuela , having 
carefully examined the New Course of the English Language, published in 
France, by Robertson, and translated into Spanish by P. J. Rojas , Esq. y 
and considering it highly usef ul and efficient in teaching that language, hat 
ordered it to be adopted as a text-book in all the National Schools.—Caracas, 
June Uh, 1852 .—By the Direction, 'J. Vargas, President 


15 



BOOKS PUBLISHED BY ROE LOCKWOOD <fe SON. 


Emanuel del Mar. Guia para la Conversacion en eepafiol 

6 ingles, que contiene varias listas de las Voces mas usuales, 
debidamente classificadas; Colecciones de Di&logos de Etiqueta 
y Frases de Conversacion sobre los asuntos mas generales de la 
vida; Refranes y modos de decir; y Tablas comparativas y Mo 
nedas, Pesos, y Medidas. 12mo. 75 cts. 

Nueva Edicion, cnidadosamente revisada y perfeccionada, y a amen • 
tada con muchas cosas utiles que ha juzgado podrian ensalzar lautilidad 
de la obra, y hacerla todavia mas digna de la aceptacion publica. 

Los proverbios, Refranes, y Modos de Decio, como tambien los 
Dialogos, han sido considerablemente extendidos, por razon de su 
muclia utilidad al estudiante, tanto en la conversacion como en la lec- 
tura, y se ha tenido cuidado en reunir los que fuesen de uso mas con- 
dnuo en ambos idiomas. 

A esta edicion tambien se le ha agregado un Tratado de Pronuncia- 
cion Inglesa, etc. 

(translation) : Del Mar's Guide to Spanish and English Conversation, 
containing various lists of Words in most general use, properly 
classified; collections of Complimentary Dialogues and Conver¬ 
sational Phrases on the most general subjects of life; Proverbs 
and Idioms; also comparative Tables of Coins, Weights, and 
Measures 12 mo. 75 cts. 

New edition, carefully revised, improved, and enlarged by many useful 
additions, which might f urther advance the utility of the work and render 
it still more worthy of public favor. 

The Proverbs and Idioms, as well as the Dialogues, have been consider¬ 
ably enlarged, on account of their great use to the student, both in conversa¬ 
tion and in reading; and particular care has been taken in selecting those 
idiomatic expressions which are most common to both languages. 

To this edition has been appended a Treatise on English Pronunciation. 

n 



BOOKS PUBLISHED BY ROE LOCKWOOD <fc SON. 


ENGLISH. 


The following Books, by Miss Eliza Bobbins, ai e intended not merely 
to teach reading for reading’s sake, but to suggest an intelligent method 
of instruction, in preference to one merely mechanical. 

Introduction to American Popular Lessons. 1 y. 18mo. 25 cts 


American Popular Lessons. 1 v. 18mo. 31 cts. 

Sequel to Popular Lessons. 1 v. 18mo. 50 cts 


Primary Dictionary. 


1 y. 18mo. 31 cts. 


The following notice, voluntarily presented by the Principals of the 
Public Schools in the city of New York, is but a specimen of many 
others which have been received:— 

“The subscribers, being well acquainted with the series of Schoo 
Books prepared by Miss Bobbins, are desirous to bring their merits 
before those interested in popular education. 

“ Proceeding gradually through a complete course of school tuition, 
these works are replete with useful information, and are well adapted 
to improve the moral and mental powers of youth. They bear the 
impress of a mind thoroughly versed in practical education, knowing 
the matter which is suitable, and the manner in which it is to be applied 
to the minds under cultivation. These books have obtained a wide 
circulation, and the approbation with which they are regarded is com 
mensurate to the use made of them. 

“We (the undersigned) hope that such as are interested in selecting 
books for the use of schools will examine this series, the author of which 
nas devoted her life to this object.” 


S. S. Jacobson, Public School, No. 1. 

Wm. Belden, 

do. 

do. 

2. 

David Patterson, 

do. 

do. 

3. 

JonN Patterson, 

do. 

do. 

4. 

Joseph McKeen, 

do. 

do. 

5. 

J. W. Ketchum, 

do. 

do. 

7. 

0. 8. Pell, 

do. 

do. 

8. 


Nathan W. Starr, Public School, No. 10. 

Wm. H. Browne, 

do. 

do. 11. 

Asa Smith, 

do. 

do. 12. 

Andrew Stout, 

do 

do. 18. 

Leonard Hazeltine, 

do. 

do. 14 

W. A. Walker, 

do. 

do. 15. 

N. Van Kleek, 

do. 

do. 16. 


“The Elementary Beading Books prepared by Miss Bobbins, have been 
m use by the Public Schools of this city for many years. I have thor¬ 
oughly examined them, and tested them in practice, and am of opinion 
that they are the best of their kind for the purposes of moral and 
mental development. The selections in them are from the best writers 
£ br juvenile readers, and judiciously adapted to American Schools, 
wherever the subjects may have required alterations. Her continued 




BOOKS PUBLISHED BY ROE LOCKWOOD 4. SON. 


course of School Books are worthy the highest commendation ; and 
from her matured experience, I have the fullest confidence in Miss 
Robbins as a writer of School Books. Her Introduction and Popular 
Lessons are ui equalled for the purpose of analytical instruction. 

S. W. Seton.” 

“ 1 have been acquainted with the Popular Lesson Series some time, 
and have given them my official recommendation for use in the Schools 
of this State. Ira Mayhew, 

Superintendent of Public Instruction, Michigan.” 

“ I am well acquainted with the text-books prepared by Miss Robbins, 
and think highly of their merits. What these merits are, in my opinion, 
I will briefly state. 

They are well written in point of style, showing an acquaintance with 
tho best models of English composition, and free from those inaccuracies 
and that Carelessness which deface so many of our school books. 

They are well adapted to the comprehension of the several classes ot 
children for which they are designed. Nothing is offered to the under¬ 
standing of a child, until it is prepared for its reception. 

They convey a great amount of useful knowledge; and are also emi¬ 
nently suggestive in their character. They fill the mind of a child with 
a healthy love of knowledge, and that lively desire of progress, which it 
is a great end of education to awaken and preserve. 

The moral tone of these books is excellent. They inculcate generous 
sentiments, and appeal to the highest motives. They direct the admi¬ 
ration of children to those qualities in humanity which are most admi¬ 
rable. They thus afford great aid to the teacher, in the moral training oj 
his pupils. Geo. S. Hillard.” 

“I have seen Miss Robbins’ School Books, and some of them I have 
examined with care. They seem to me to have very great merit. They 
are written with good taste, and evince a careful and skilful use of ex¬ 
tensive reading. They are well adapted to excite the mind to inquiry, 
and to fill it with useful and interesting knowledge. 

Their moral tone is excellent; on this score they are wholly free from 
objection. 

The Committee on Books used in our Public schools (of which I am 
chairman) have just resolved, by unanimous vote, to recommend the 
introduction of the Sequel to Popular Lessons; and others of her 
books are under favorable consideration. 

Boston , July 25, 1846. 


Theophilus Parsons.’’ 



BOOKS PUBLISHED BF ROE LOCKWOOD Jn SOK. 


First Lessons in Human Physiology, for the use of Schools, 
to which are added brief Rules of Health: by John H. Griscom, 
M. D., with 50 large and distinct illustrations. 16mo. 42 cts. 

“ This work is written with much care Dy one fully competent, not only 
in respect of his thorough acquaintance with the subject, but of thf 
faculty or tact necessary to secure the attention, by reaching and inter 
esting the minds of children. 

It is strictly a First booJc in the study of Human Physiology—a study 
which in importance is second to none, and superior to most of the sub¬ 
jects which are now taught in our schools. 

I am so well acquainted with Dr. Griscom’s writings, and with the 
very sound and practical views he always advances, that I should have 
no hesitation in commending almost any thing from his pen. 

Hon. Horace Mann.” 

Extract from the Minutes of the Executive Committee of the New 
York Public School Society, March 4, 1847. 

“ Resolved , That Griscom’s small work on Physiology be adopted for 
general use in the Upper Schools, and that a copy be placed in the 
Primary Schools for each of the Teachers, Assistants, and Monitors.” 

“Dr. Griscom’s First Lessons in Human Physiology, 1 consider ad¬ 
mirably adapted to the capacity of children, combining in a very happy 
manner, interest and instruction. I shall most cheerfully recommend 
its use in all our Primary Schools. Ira Mayhew, 

Superintendent of Public Instruction, Michigan.” 

“ Griscom’s Physiology, I consider a work of rare merit; one which 
ought to be in the possession of every child in the land, giving, as it 
does, in a condensed but simple form, much valuable information.” 

Mills’ Blair’s Rhetoric. Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles- 
lettres, chiefly from the Lectures of Dr. Hugh Blair; to which 
are added Copious Questions and an Analysis of each Lecture 
By Abrah vm Mills, A. M. New and enlarged edition. 12mo. $1. 

(.Extract from the New Preface.') 

“ In presenting to the public an improved edition of the following 
lectures, the editor has endeavored to render the work as nearly com¬ 
plete as the nature of the subject would permit. With this view, ha 
has extended the critical portion down to the present period, embracing 




BOOKS PUBLISHED BY ROE LOCK WOOD <fc SON. 


all those writers in English literature who have adorned the language 
with their productions during the last half century. The criticisms, 
though brief, are as extensive as the nature of the work requires, and 
are written with direct reference to the purposes of instruction,” etc. 

Baldwin’s Table Book. A Table Book and Primary Arithmetic, 
compiled and arranged for the Introductory Department of the 
New York Public and Ward Schools, and particularly adapted 
to the system of Mutual Instruction. By Austin Baldwin. 
New edition, revised. 18mo. 10 cts. 

Preface .—Having for a long time sustained considerable inconveni¬ 
ence from the want of a book of Arithmetical Tables adapted to the 
capacities of very young pupils, and arranged in such a manner as to 
answer the purposes of a large school, I have been induced to compile 
one, with a special view to the necessities of the system of monitorial 
instruction. 

Believing it important that children should be made to understand 
the application of what they are required to commit to memory, I have 
placed a few simple questions at the end of each lesson, illustrating its 
use; and,as a knowledge of the rules of Arithmetic can be well under¬ 
stood by children, only by performing the operations, I have endeavored, 
in the introduction, to make the rules as concise as possible, depending 
principally on the examples for fixing them in the minds of the pupils. 
It is confidently hoped that this little work will lighten the labor of the 
child in committing to memory that which is so important as a founda¬ 
tion for Arithmetic, and also that, by the division and numbering of 
the lessons, it may relieve the teacher of much trouble in assigning the 
proper portions for each scholar or class. 

That it may, however small the offering, aid the cause of juvenile ed¬ 
ucation, is the earnest wish of THE COMPILER. 

Clarke’s Elements of Astronomy ; a new system of Astronomy, 
in Question and Answer, for the use of Schools. 12mo. 21 cts. 

Mrs. Tuthill's Simple Facts, which every child should know. 

12mo. 45 eta 

18mo. 34 cts. 


Science of Common Things. 
School Diary, per dozen. 


fi? ceuta 







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VALUABLE TEXT-BOOKS. 




FRENCH PUBLICATIONS — CONTINUED. 

- / 

ATALA, RENTS. Par Chateaubriand. l2mo. 50 

MABIRE’S Conversational Phrases; or, French Synonyms. l6mo. 45 

CHOUQTJET’S First Lessons in French. l6mo. 45 

-Easy Conversations in French. 16mo. 63 

-First Readings in French. l6mo.. 63 

VANTHER'S French Pronunciation and Spelling. l6mo. 45 

Mrs. BARBABLD’S Lessons for Children, in French. l6mo. 45 

BERQUIN’S Easy Conversational French Reader. l2mo. 50 

LE LIVRE des Petits Enfants. (A Reader for Little Children.) 18mo. 50 


Paris Editions. 


MOLXERE. CEuvres Completes. 2 vols. 12mo . 2 00 

RACINE. “ “ 12mo.. 1 00 

CORNEILLE. “ “ l6mo. 1 00 

Mme. de STAEL. Corinne. l2mo . l oo 

- L’Allemagne. (Germany.) l2mo. 100 

Mme. de SEVIGNE, Lettres. l2mo. 100 

LE SAGE. Gil Bias de Santillane. i2mo. l oo 

BOSSUET. Histoire TJniverselle. 12mo. 100 

PASCAL. Lettres Provinciales. 12mo. 1 00 

—-Les Pensees. l2mo . l oo 

VOLTAIRE. Siecle de Louis XIV. l2mo . 100 

FENELON. Telemaque. Without Notes. 12mo. 1 00 


* 


ENGLISH. 

OLMSTED’S CHEMISTRY. 12mo. 1 00 

AMERICAN Popular Lessons. By Eliza Robbins. 31 

INTRODUCTION to “ • “ “ . . 25 

SEQUEL to “ “ “ . r. . 50 

PRIMARY Dictionary. “ M . 81 

GRECIAN History. * “ .. 75 

MILLS’ Blair’s Rhetoric. i 00 

GRISCCM’S First Lessons in Human Physiology. 42 

BALDWIN’S Table Book and Primary Arithmetic. 10 

CLARKE’S Elements of Astronomy. . 21 















































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